


march forward to sin again

by darthpumpkinspice



Series: bright shadows under the sun [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gen, M/M, Minor time skip, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, recovering Cardassia, skipping some steps in there though lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: The Dominion War ends with Cardassia in ruins, and Damar finds his homeworld is not yet done with him. But Cardassian wounds heal slowly, and the addition of a Vorta ambassador - the newest incarnation of Weyoun - is a complication he finds himself unprepared to handle.
Relationships: Damar & Ezri Dax, Damar & Kira Nerys, Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Ezri Dax & Weyoun, Ezri Dax/Kira Nerys
Series: bright shadows under the sun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189757
Comments: 82
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this takes place in the same universe as my [Dayoun one-shot series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084316), but can 100% be read on its own! tl;dr is Damar/Weyoun had an enemies with benefits relationship that was genuinely affectionate with Weyoun 6, and less so with his successors. 
> 
> this chapter is pretty dark! and i apologize for that!! i pinky promise the next chapter will be lot lighter, but I just wanted this chapter to focus on Damar's first steps of recovery in the immediate aftermath of the Dominion war, since there's going to be a 3 year time skip between this chapter and the next. also, i'm a lazy writer, and the next chapter was taking a long time.. 
> 
> i really had a lot of fun writing this, and i SWEAR it will (probably!) not get any more angsty than this chapter haha.. I hope you all enjoy! I always welcome ppl's thoughts :)

The world ends, Cardassia burns, and Damar chokes on his own blood and thinks _finally, I’m done_.

Cardassia dies a violent death around him; in the distance he can make out the distinctive symphony of warfare, somehow much less grand and noble when leveled against his own people: sonic blasts from missiles detonating, the muffled boom of explosions and the aching, horrible grind as buildings ripple from the impact and finally collapse, and the shrieking discharge of phaser fire punctuating the brief moments of stillness that exist between the rhythm of deploying bombs. He knows this sort of carnage intimately: his thoughts have begun to grow muddled, but if he cared to, he could still name each weapon just from the noises they make as they activate and turn another thousand of his countrymen to bloody mist and powdered bone. There is an acute irony here, he recognizes: that his life, spent in service to violence (in the name of a so-called, distant, greater good) will be ended in the same way.

Perhaps it is the blood loss, or the oxygen deprivation, but Damar finds himself spluttering out a weak giggle that tastes of copper. Here he is, well on his way to becoming just another casualty in the ugly war he helped Dukat usher into the Alpha Quadrant, his life reduced to a statistic to be tallied up and analyzed by a team of bloodless bureaucrats, immortalized as a cold number on a spreadsheet. He hears, faintly, the shrill sound of a scream followed by muffled, hurried footsteps, and there in the crumbling ruins of Cardassia City, in the ashes of a civilization that had once taught entire star systems to fear it, Damar waits for the end. Distantly, as his mind begins to slip and his thoughts lose what’s left of their coherency, he realizes he can feel hands searching over his chest, pushing up his shirt with nimble fingers. _Scavengers, already?_ He wonders at this, but he is growing very tired, and that thought exhausts the last reserves of his curiosity. He does not question the sting of metal against his neck or the press of an adhesive over his sternum. There is a sudden, vicious flood of sensation that pours into his lungs – a freezing burn that races urgently through his veins, pulsing into his extremities, and the quick hands that bandaged his chest now hold him down as his body contorts, twisting and spasming. Ice-water seems to have replaced his blood, and the sharp frostbite agony of it tearing a path through his innards is enough to finally, mercifully, plunge him into unconsciousness.

The medics administering to him hoist him up onto a makeshift stretcher, and Damar’s limp body – freshly injected with oxygen and cortolin – is ferried through streets devastated in the aftermath of indiscriminate shelling. Damar will not remember this part, and he will not remember what will come next. It is a mercy he will later say is one he scarcely deserved. He is taken to a field hospital, set up in a hollowed-out building that may have once been a school, and he is brought into a cramped room that hums with the noise of an ancient decontamination device. His rescuers find the damage to his heart to be irreparable, and so they cut out the ruined organ, and fashion him a new one made of printed muscles cells knit together by a synthetic tissue weave. It is a hastily-made thing, a creation devoid of any surgical artistry – just a block of purely functional meat built to occupy the space in his chest where his heart once beat. He has no memory of any of this. He does not remember crying out as the doctor, worn ragged by days without sleep, kept upright by sheer willpower and a steady cocktail of illegal stimulants, forgets to administer his dosage of anesthesia on time. He does not remember weeping from the pain that radiates from his chest until it become all-encompassing – and he does not remember her gentle apology, and her fingers that wiped away the tears running down his cheeks. Her hands have been religiously sanitized - a medical ritual that transcends time and species – but the silver earring dangling past her chin is speckled with Cardassian blood. He does not remember how he vomited at the sight of it… the sickening way it had swung into his vision, glinting almost malevolently in the harsh overhead lights.

Later, they will tell him that he begged intermittently for death, and that he cried out the names of unfamiliar people. They ask him: _Who was Niala? Who was Tora Ziyal? Who was Weyoun?_

They are shadows, he wants to say, ghosts haunting his memories and dreams. But his tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth, and the attempt at speech scrapes at his throat like sandpaper over injured skin. In the end, all he manages to gasp out is: _they are nobody_. At this, they nod sympathetically, and then there is the cold bite of a hypospray against his neck, returning him to the dark, blissful ocean of oblivion.

He would be loath to admit it, but a small, foolish part of him had held on to a shred of hope that the battle for Cardassia had been a nightmare – some monstrous delirium conjured from the blackest depths of his subconscious. And perhaps there is a certain truth in that, but the nightmare that has befallen Cardassia is not the sort of nightmare that is banished upon awakening. When he resurfaces into a semblance of awareness, his brain clouded by analgesics and the stubbornly enduring pain the medicine is unable to fully suppress, he finds his planet has become a graveyard – a mausoleum to his people’s mistakes. The world ended while he lay on a hospital cot, and he remains. It does not seem _right_.

He thinks he falls asleep again, for his vision swims and darkens, and when it resolves there is a slim figure occupying the shadows besides his bed. She stinks in the way only a battlefield doctor can – lingering scents of piss and shit and blood only half-hidden under the harsh smells of antiseptic and bleach detergent. There is an almost dreamlike familiarity to her, and without remembering she was the doctor who dried his tears too many times to count, he finds he trusts her implicitly, in a primitive, desperate way. He reaches out to her unthinkingly, and she helps prop him upright, bringing the rim of something heavy with liquid to his lips. Her words sound like they’re being said underwater, and he thinks she tries to caution slowness, but he is parched – his throat burns with thirst – and he greedily chokes down as much of the offered water as he can. It’s stale, and there is a faintly metallic aftertaste that suggests it’s spent the better part of a decade sealed away in a military bunker, but he does not think he’s ever tasted anything quite as sweet. He licks the last droplets off his cracked lips, savoring them, and then reaches out for the doctor again, hoping to beg her to let him see his city, to behold the damage for himself. He is not certain the horrors of his imagination will be worse than the truth of it, but he can no longer endure not knowing. If it were a choice, he would rather his heart be carved out of his chest again, squeezed to a pulp before his own eyes.

His words are whisper-rough and inarticulate, but the doctor sees the plea in his eyes, and she obliges him. Her hands are cool enough to provoke a weak shiver, but she is patient with him, and helps him stand. When he is ready, she guides him outside among the wreckage, one hand on his elbow, the other pressed against his lower back for stability.

The air is humid, and hangs with an acrid scent. Surrounding him on all sides is destruction.

“You won,” the doctor tells him gently. Ash dusts her hair like dandruff. “The Dominion has surrendered.”

This does not feel like victory. Not far off he glimpses a skeleton – bits of melted flesh still clinging to bone – buried under a mound of burnt metal and crumbled mortar. It is small and delicate, like a child. The bones have already started to bleach under the sun.

“I should’ve died,” he hears himself say. His voice aches from disuse, and a flare of pain emanates from his chest as his new heart begins to pound frantically, as if trying in vain to escape its prison of ribs and skin.

The doctor gazes at him steadily, and he looks at her clearly for the first time, realizing with a muted shame that she is Bajoran. Her mouth opens, and he does not know exactly what she tries to say, but he does hear her call him _Legate_ , as if attempting to appeal to his sense of duty.

Duty? As if he retains any obligations to a dead world. His duty to Cardassia would surely not extend past her demise, just as a wife would not be expected to remain faithful to a husband lost in the chaos of battle. War is a gluttonous entity: it has devoured Cardassia, sucked her dry of life, stolen away all of her pride and beauty. His planet is a memory of herself, a hollow mimicry of her old glory.

But he has nothing left but memories, and ghosts, so he stands shakily upon the carcass that was once his cherished home – held upright by a Bajoran – and rededicates himself to its defense, as much out of a love for his people as for his own sanity. Corat Damar is a man that needs purpose like a domesticated targ needs a master. Without it, he is nothing at all.

“Take your time,” the doctor murmurs, her voice soft with an expertly refined kindness that suggests she has had too much recent practice helping Cardassian wounded acclimate to their new reality. She looks up at him, her eyes soot-dark and full of a deep sorrow, “I understand what this must feel like.”

“Of _course_ you do,” he rasps. In the face of the sheer enormity of his grief, in the unfamiliar fragility of his injured body, cruelty becomes his only recourse, the only tool still left at his disposal. “We taught this devastation to your people, after all.” He attempts a sneer, but his voice comes out brittle, and the insult ends up sounding more like a confession. The doctor’s hands, thin and strong, continue to hold him steady, and she lets his words drift by, unremarked on.

He stares at her, because he cannot bring himself to return his gaze to the wasteland beyond, and feels like he is drowning in her eyes. He gasps weakly for breath and his knees buckle as pain engulfs him; as his vision starts to dissolve, he faintly hears her shout for a nurse, and there are the pattering sounds of running feet. Before unconsciousness takes him, a voice drifts out to him - whether it belongs to the doctor or simply his own imagination, he cannot be certain. _Heal quickly, Legate,_ it says. _There is work to be done._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter in which conversations happen and Damar wishes he could be anywhere else. takes place 3 years after the end of the last chapter, but this will be the only lengthy time skip in the series
> 
> also i PROMISE i have not forgotten Damar saved Ezri's life haha, but Damar totally forgot! (it was a v stressful time for him). I do plan on including that discussion in a later chapter though :D
> 
> Tw for brief mention of sexual assault 
> 
> I hope ya'll enjoyyy

The space station he once knew as Terok Nor hangs in a low orbit above Bajor, the black armor of its outer rings gleaming like carapace in the light of a distant sun. The sight of the structure renders him briefly homesick – the sleek, symmetrical efficiency of its design, the dark colors, and the curved arms of the docking pylons that envelope the inner hub in a geometrically perfect embrace. All in all, Deep Space Nine is a prototypical example of Cardassian architectural engineering, almost to the point of caricature. He wonders absently if it rankles the Bajorans to have this remembrance of their oppressors tethered to their world, or if they view its presence with pride – the way a soldier might display war trophies, the way Dukat used to collect the bat’leths of his vanquished Klingon foes. 

Damar’s shuttle hovers above the station while his pilot rattles off a seemingly endless string of clearance codes to station security. Damar’s pilot’s face is quickly darkening to a worrisome shade of blue and he sputters off another few numbers before sucking in a quick breath of air. Damar hopes, for the pilot’s sake, he’s finally done, but no – with a look of weary resignation he begins to recite another series of codes.

Damar had been able to sufficiently distract himself during the journey over, ignoring his eventual purpose, but now that they’re in such close proximity to their destination, he finds he’s no longer able to will away those invasive thoughts. It is not _right_ that they’re inviting the Dominion back into their arms – it has barely been three years since the end of the war, and they are _still_ discovering new bodies to add to the tally of the dead.

If it were _his_ decision no Vorta, Jem’Hadar, or Founder would _ever_ set foot on his homeworld again, at least, not until the rebuilding had completed and the black, glimmering spires of Cardassia Prime stood just as proudly and magnificently as they had before the war.

If it were his decision… But it is not. He himself has seen to that.

Dread washes over him like cold water and he curls his hand into a fist, squeezing his nails into his palm. Pain alights his nerves, and he focuses on it, letting it ground him back into reality. He draws in a deep, steadying breath and turns his gaze to the viewport and the green planet below. Bajor is beautiful, he supposes, although it has never held his interest like it did Dukat’s. As far as he’s concerned, there are plenty of equally lovely green and blue rocks in the galaxy, and most of them much less openly hostile to Cardassians. His son had wanted to visit Earth, he half-remembers, but Damar’s duties had barely given him time to return home at all, let alone plan a lengthy vacation elsewhere in the quadrant. His son had always hidden his disappointment with an admirable stoicism. His wife had not. He refocuses on the world below, watches as white cyclonic clouds roil around its equator. He wonders if somewhere far below, a Bajoran settlement in its path is about to be wiped away, if the storm that seems so slow-moving and silent from his vantage point will be an apocalyptic cataclysm in another’s life. 

The pilot hacks out a loud cough, and Damar twists around, ransacking his brain for any available memories on performing CPR (he finds none – only the vague recollection of a first aid seminar he’d chalked up as woman’s work and subsequently avoided). But to his relief the pilot’s complexion has returned to a healthy shade of grey, and the cough seems to have been merely an attempt to get his attention versus the dying sounds of a man forced to recite too many clearance codes with too little oxygen. Although… he squints at the pilot. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and his eyes _almost_ look a smidge bloodshot. Perhaps it’s a symptom of a plague, he thinks hopefully. If he’s lucky, they’ll be forced to quarantine on the station and if they’re _exceedingly_ fortunate the Dominion delegation will decide to fuck back off to the Gamma Quadrant instead of exposing themselves to whatever Cardassian sickness Damar and his men have brought with them.

To his great disappointment, the pilot shifts back in his chair, revealing that the appearance of sweat had been little more than a trick of the overhead lights. “We’ve been cleared to make our final descent,” he informs Damar in a voice devoid of any inflection beyond a professional deference.

“Finally,” Damar mutters. “Any more verification codes and you would’ve been in danger of an aneurysm.”

The pilot blinks rapidly, and his expression contorts as a minor battle wages inside him. “What was that, sir?” he asks at last, having evidently decided in favor of politely pretending not to have heard Damar. It’s the safe option, and Damar can hardly fault him for it: it’s the exact same response he would’ve given if a superior officer had tried to make a joke that stupid to him. 

“Nothing. Proceed, soldier.”

The pilot obediently begins the docking procedures, flying their shuttle towards one of the upper pylons. An umbilical extends out and their ship latches on, sealing into place as their engines depower. His pilot remains behind, and Damar’s two bodyguards – so silent on their trip that he’d half-suspected they were attempting to master the art of napping with their eyes open – fall into a loose, protective stance behind him as they disembark.

A small greeting party is waiting for their arrival: a pair of Bajoran aides in those painfully bland jumpsuits they seem to favor, a handful of unremarkable Starfleet officers, and then there at the center is Kira Nerys, red hair, red lips, and red uniform - a blaze of color and vibrancy. The sight of her is as welcome as a soldier’s first terrestrial sunrise after a long tour of duty in the void, and with a mild surprise Damar realizes how much he had missed her these past years. 

Stone-faced, Kira snaps a sharp salute. “Legate! We are honored to receive such illustrious company.” She stares at him for a moment, and then a playful twinkle enters her eyes and her expression dissolves with mirth as she drops the overly formal charade. “It is _good_ to see you again, Damar,” Kira tells him warmly, stepping forward to clasp him on the shoulders.

He feels a smile tug at his lips. “I’d imagine so. Still only a Colonel? You really have suffered in my absence.” He chuckles at his own joke, and Kira rolls her eyes.

She pulls back slightly, but her hands linger on his shoulders for a moment and she squeezes gently before releasing. “I truly am glad to have you here,” she says. “I’m sorry it’s not under the most…” she hesitates, searching – he guesses – for a suitably diplomatic word, “ _favorable_ circumstances.”

His mood abruptly sours, and the brief euphoria of seeing an old comrade-in-arms fades to a cold buzz. “A shame,” he agrees flatly.

Kira’s eyes search him. “How are you, really?” she asks in a low murmur, as if they are the only two people in the hall.

Unfortunately for Damar, he’s not quite as capable at ignoring a cadre of governmental aides looming around him, and this conversation is quickly veering into territory he’d prefer to address in private, if at all. He makes an unintelligent noise in the back of his throat that, fortuitously, Kira seems correctly interpret. “We’ll get a drink,” she decides. Her smile is wide and dazzling. “Quark is still hanging around.” She turns, and with a gesture dismisses her aides, with the exception of a single Starfleet officer in a green collar. At Damar’s command, his own bodyguards likewise retreat along with Kira’s delegation, and the remaining officer approaches. “Legate Damar - Lieutenant Ezri Dax, our station counselor,” Kira introduces.

Damar nods a greeting at the officer. From the markings on her face and neck he guesses she’s a Trill – or a human with an odd choice in tattoos. She’s remarkably androgynous by Cardassian standards, with short dark hair slicked back in a style that’s almost exclusively masculine among his people, but she's a counselor, in the medical field – an appropriately womanish profession. It’s a perplexing contradiction, and his brain briefly splutters as it works to reorient itself to non-Cardassian norms. “I look forward to working with you,” he says, and gives a smile his wife had described as _charming_ early in their relationship, and then as _a grimace with more teeth_ not long after their nuptials. 

If Ezri finds it an unpleasant sight to behold, she does an adequate job of concealing it. “It’s good to be _formally_ introduced,” she says, stretching out the word and flashing a mischievous smile that makes him feel like he’s being left out on an inside joke. Her expression turns apologetic. “I promise I won’t be an inconvenience,” she assures him. “I’m sure having a Starfleet officer tag along wasn’t your first choice – but thank you for being so understanding about the situation.” 

Damar shrugs. Starfleet’s insistence on sending along one of their own officers to accompany the Vorta ambassador to Cardassian space might’ve been an offensive proposal in different circumstances – a poorly disguised insinuation that they didn’t trust the Cardassian people would honor their vow to ensure the representative’s safety – but it pales in comparison to the much larger indignity of having a member of the Dominion foisted upon him.

Kira glances between them, and she and Ezri share an affectionate look. “You’re in good hands,” she promises. Then, with a laugh, she adds, “Just don’t let him convince you to start a game of Kadis-kot. He’s a surprisingly adept player.”

“Surprisingly?” Damar grumbles.

Ezri gives him a contemplative look. “I’ll teach you Tongo,” she says, grinning. “And then after you lose to me in that a few dozen times, maybe I’ll let you recover some pride with a match of Kadis-kot.”

“Acceptable terms,” Damar tells her, and makes another attempt at a smile.

In agreement now, and with the pleasantries safely out of the way, Ezri shoots a last, lingering look to Kira and then turns to depart, clasping her hands behind her back as she does.

“Take care of her,” Kira says, eyes locked on Ezri’s retreating figure, her gaze fond. Her painted red lips twitch into a secretive smile. “She’s more to me than just our station’s counselor.”

The implication is not lost on Damar, and he nods. “The privileges of rank,” he says automatically, echoing one of Dukat’s favorite phrases. A heat rises in his chest, ushering in a flurry of incomprehensible feelings he does not particularly want to interrogate, and he opens his mouth to speak. He knows it is profoundly inappropriate to comment further – in fact, by addressing it at all he has already crossed a line, but he finds himself unable to control his tongue. The words come out more vicious than he intends. “I didn’t imagine _you_ would take advantage of such things.” He stops himself, and the flush of emotion dissipates as quickly as it had come, leaving him off-balance and faintly ashamed of his reaction. To try and smooth over his rudeness, he adds hastily, “but that is, of course, your place.”

He remembers the touch of his own superior officers, remembers the intimacy of contact many of them had insisted upon. He had… not always enjoyed it, but he had sworn his body in service to the state, and he had respected the right of his commanders to do with it as they saw fit. Damar had never fallen victim to the falsehood that his _duty_ to Cardassia would always be pleasant.

Kira gapes at him, and a realization sparks to life in her eyes. Her features soften into an expression uncomfortably close to pity. “It’s not like that,” she explains. “Ezri Dax is my wife.”

Damar hesitates, feeling exceedingly stupid. This, he decides, doesn’t look like it’s going to go down in history as one of his better days. “I see.” Then he pouts, trying to recover some of their earlier lightness. “I wasn’t invited to the wedding. I’m excellent at parties.”

Kira’s eyes are still shadowed with concern, but she laughs. “If it had been up to me, it would’ve been a massive ceremony! And you certainly would’ve been invited, as long as you brought your own kanar.” She shakes her head. “Unfortunately, Dax had her fill of big weddings after the one with Worf, back when she was Jadzia, and then-” Kira stops at the look on Damar’s face, and mercifully cuts herself off before his brain can finish liquefying. “Trill,” she says, by way of an explanation. “Remind me to send you some reading material about their species.” She waves an airy hand. “Anyway. We’ve only got an hour or two before the Dominion arrives so… Quark’s? Last I heard he programmed some new drinks into the replicator.”

* * *

Kira and Damar sit alone at the back of Quark’s bar, secluded away from the noise of the patrons and the spinning and warbling of the dabo wheels. Both of them eye their drinks glumly, staring down at what Quark had bullied them into selecting. Damar shakes his glass experimentally, and the concoction inside actually wobbles – it’s a semi-transparent, puke-hued monstrosity that’s a step away from being described as gelatinous. Quark had been emphatic that it was a rare delicacy from one of the moons of the Mintaka system, but Damar wouldn’t be surprised if the Ferengi had scraped it up from the station’s hazardous waste disposal system instead. Kira scowls down at her own drink as if it has personally offended her, and Damar glances at it as well, half-inclined to remind her it could be much worse. Her drink is at least aesthetically pleasing – the glass is delicate and fluted, and the alcohol itself is an amalgam of rainbow colors that swim together, coalescing and then separating again by means of some alien chemistry that fascinates Damar. The only thing that stops him from suggesting (insisting) they swap drinks is the smell – there’s an odor drifting from her glass that’s sugary sweet to the point of being nauseating.

“This is appalling,” Damar grumbles. “I still can’t believe it.”

Kira nods. “I agree. I raised my own objections when Starfleet informed us of this plan, not that anyone listened. It’s just… too soon for _reconciliation_.” She spits out that word like it’s acid on her tongue, and Damar wonders if a part of her is thinking of the peace talks between his people and hers. 

Damar had actually been referring to his drink, but he’s happy to complain about the mission too – it is, after all, his greater grievance, although the thing in his glass is looking exponentially more grotesque by the second and may soon be in stiff competition for being the source of his bad mood. “Reconciliation,” he echoes slowly, rolling the word around on his tongue to get a feel for it. It sounds hollow to his ears, and tastes like ash. “You think that’s what they’re really after? It wouldn’t be the first time they came to start a war under the false banner of peace.”

Kira’s gaze turns wistful. “I try to have faith Odo succeeded in instigating change among their Link. But… change takes time. And the Dominion is an ancient empire. Those institutions don’t just dissolve overnight, even if their gods all of a sudden decided _friendship_ was more strategic to them than conquest.”

“Gods,” Damar scoffs. “The arrogance of it. Imagine genetically engineering entire species’ into being your playthings, and then brainwashing them into believing you’re divine. It is _deeply_ pathetic.”

Kira doesn’t seem inclined to disagree. She lets out a long, tired sigh, and says, “As much as Odo would’ve wanted me to try… I just can’t bring myself to trust the Founders. Not yet, at least. They have too much blood on their hands, too much to answer for.” She stares down at her glass, idly tilting it to the side and letting the colors swirl into new and exciting combinations. “But… some of the Vorta aren’t as bad. There’s one I’ve been dealing with over the last two years – Kilana. She’s good company, for one of them. Remarkably pleasant.”

Damar feels a nascent headache begin to throb dully over his brow. He contemplates taking a bracing swig from his drink – as unattractive as it looks, it’s still alcohol, which is all that matters in the end – but the light is reflecting off of it in a way that is distinctly unnatural and he reconsiders. “They’re all pleasant,” he tells her at last. “When they want something from you.”

Kira shrugs, untroubled by this. Damar considers her among his closest friends – the bond they had forged during their time on Cardassia with Garak, the three of them versus the entire Dominion, is a strong one, but she is still alien to him in a way that has nothing to do with her Bajoran heritage. He has never managed to fully understand her; he does not know how the instincts drilled into her during her long tenure as an insurgent – the well-honed paranoia and mistrust – can sometimes seem to evaporate so completely depending on the circumstances, on how gentle and genuine she finds her adversary to be. Her passions, her moods, have often seemed to Damar to defy logic; her temper is unpredictable and fleeting, like lightning storms off the coast of an ocean.

The silence sits between them, heavy and awkward, and Damar stares at the dabo wheels instead of meeting her gaze, watches as a Vulcan – wearing the most dejected expression he’s even seen on their race – has a small fortune of latinum swept away by an Andorian dabo girl who does a questionable job of feigning sympathy. It seems impossible, but somehow the dabo girls are even more skimpily dressed than the last time he was on Terok Nor – this one has on a dusting of gold glitter, and little else. To his great chagrin, his wife had taken an Andorian lover once: he’d been furious, and had demanded she limit her future indiscretions to Cardassian men and women. She’d refused, he’d sulked, and both of them had agreed that if the prospect of divorce ever became more practical, they’d jump on it. Ironically, that had been the first accord the two of them had reached since the birth of their son.

“Earth to Legate Damar,” he hears Kira say, and he tears his gaze away from the Andorian and her Vulcan customer – who is now down another three strips of latinum and is certainly crying on the inside, even if his Vulcan restraint prevents him from actually shedding a tear.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

She makes a face. “It was one of Sisko’s human expressions. He used it when someone seemed distracted.”

It’s a nonsensical phrase, and Damar frowns, puzzling over how to express this sentiment without insulting her former superior. “Unique species, aren’t they?”

“Mm.” Kira is quiet for a moment, before inhaling deeply, as if in preparation. “Legate Kell is still the leader of the Cardassian Union,” she says suddenly. Damar glances at her, trying to mentally calculate how much of their prior conversation has been prelude for this. He hadn’t really expected the last three years to have miraculously instilled her with a newfound sense of tact, but the conversational pivot is abrupt even by her standards.

“Yes,” he answers warily. He’s not a fan of the look that’s entered her eyes, and he determines his best strategy is to keep his responses as monosyllabic as possible. Fine by him: he has plenty of expertise doing exactly that from whenever Dukat was in one of his more grandiose moods.

Her uniform is fitted tightly to her body, and underneath Damar sees the muscles in Kira’s shoulders flex, like a hara cat readying itself to pounce. “You told me you’d expected him to be gone within a year,” she tells him, wearing a smile that has become dangerously mild. “You told me civilian leadership would’ve been reestablished by now.”

Damar’s drink shines sickly and translucent in the light. “That was my hope.” He taps a quick finger against the side of the glass, and the liquid sloshes in a particularly unappetizing way. “I was wrong.”

Kira’s smile has gone as thin as a razor. “You shouldn’t have been surprised,” she says lowly. “Cardassians will always prioritize the illusion of strength before anything else. It’s just in your nature.” Her eyes catch the light and shine with a dark, furious fire; they are the eyes of a terrorist who has not forgiven her old oppressors. What can he say to challenge that? He does not blame her for still clinging to the hatred that once kept her alive. He raises his glass to his lips and tilts it back, finishing the drink in a single swallow. As expected, it has a slimy consistency, like mucus, and he quickly swallows again before he can be sick. His stomach churns. “It should’ve been you,” Kira says at last, and while there is still a trace of reproach in her eyes, her voice has grown gentle. “You would’ve done right by your people.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, and he doesn’t bother to try. He stares down at his emptied glass and wishes he had more. This isn’t exactly how he’d pictured their reunion going – the first time they’d seen each other since she found out he was still alive a month after the war – but he supposes this is about what he should’ve expected, meeting with her under such inauspicious circumstances. Once again, the Dominion casts a wide shadow, and stains everything that falls underneath it. As if on cue, Kira’s communicator makes an insistent chirp, and with a grunt, she slaps it with more force than necessary. “This is Kira,” she says, an undercurrent of irritability sharpening her words.

Damar leans back to give her some semblance of privacy, but he can still make out the voice on the other end – tinny, but clear enough that he doesn’t have to struggle much to eavesdrop – _“The Vorta have arrived, sir. As agreed, no Jem’Hadar were included in the landing party.”_

“Well that’s a relief,” Kira mutters. “The Legate is with me. We’re on our way. Direct our _guests_ to the Wardroom. They can wait for us out front. Kira out.”

Damar chuckles to himself, prompting Kira to raise an eyebrow. “Back when you were in the Bajoran resistance, could you ever have imagined that one day you’d be the one barking out orders to this station?”

Kira’s eyes glaze over, as if drifting to some distant memory. “Not even in my fever dreams,” she says quietly, her voice far away. Then she shakes her head, and snaps herself back to the present. “I just wish _Dukat_ were here to see this,” she says viciously. She plasters on a taut approximation of a smile. “On my more megalomaniacal days, I sometimes consider setting up something similar to those videos of his, just to keep my people on their toes,” she jokingly confesses. Her smile loses some of its stiffness. She straightens, arranging her features into a parody of Dukat’s performative benevolence. She clears her throat, mimicking his voice, “Attention: Bajoran and Starfleet workers! This is your beloved Kira Nerys speaking!” 

“I tried to install something similar in my offices,” Damar tells her, commiserating. “Sadly, my adjunct informed me it wasn’t workable within our annual budget, unless we wanted to get rid of our red tea leaf machine.” He heaves a dramatic sigh. “Sacrifice and difficult choices: such are the burdens of leadership.” In truth, he’d floated the idea to his adjunct once as a joke, but she’d evidently taken the request at face-value, and the next morning a lengthy budgetary spreadsheet was waiting on his desk, detailing the exact logistical difficulties with his proposal and all the office supplies they’d have to do without to squeeze it in. At that point, he’d been too embarrassed to clarify he hadn’t been serious, and instead awkwardly went through the motions of a formal review and rejection of her revised budget plan. She had been relieved when he informed her that, after careful consideration, he’d decided against embedding egoistical videos of himself into all of their hardware in the unlikely event of a mutiny – which, in his office, would likely take the form of caffeine-starved workers attacking him with the broken PADD’s he kept promising to replace. 

“You’re stalling,” Kira says, not unkindly. With a sigh, she pushes herself up from her chair and away from their table. “Come on,” she says, “the sooner you get this over with… the sooner it’s, well, over with.”

Damar supposes there’s a certain crude logic to that, and without any viable escape routes he surrenders to his fate. He stands up with a grunt, and after a momentary consideration, grabs Kira’s untouched drink and knocks it back. The cloying stench invades his nostrils, likely doing permanent damage to his sense of smell, but the flavor itself is surprisingly pleasant, and he licks away the taste of undefinable citrus from his lips. “Let’s be done with this.”

* * *

They reconvene in front of the Wardroom, meeting up with their officers and aides, as well as the assembled Vorta landing party. There’s a half-dozen Vorta in a loose, deferential semi-circle around a figure Damar takes to be their leader. For a second he wonders if she is the diplomat he’ll be working with, but then Kira calls her “Kilana” and welcomes her in a tone that can’t exactly be called _fond,_ but is certainly a step in that direction.

Kilana nods politely to him. She’s an intriguing Vorta specimen – the first one he’s seen that’s dressed in something other than heavy, hideously patterned robes. Despite the infamous aesthetic blindness of her species, her dress is of a stylish cut, her hair is brushed out from her people’s usual rigid updo, and even her makeup looks expertly applied. Damar decides Kilana is either a careful student of humanoid beauty standards, or she’s simply bold enough to flaunt her own defectiveness – for her behavior certainly does not adhere to their usual norms. Perhaps this is the reason Kira likes her – for the slightly rebellious implication her unconventional appearance suggests. His thoughts begin to swirl with a paranoid fervor as he wonders if that’s why Kilana was the one assigned to Kira; surely the Dominion has her psychographic profile, and if so, they’d be well aware of her preferences in the sort of company she keeps. It’s the exact sort of insidious cleverness he’d expect from the Dominion – certainly, it would not be the first time they’ve extended a hand of friendship as a way to wedge themselves closer to foreign powers. 

“Legate Damar,” Kilana says, greeting him in a voice that is, to her credit, livelier and friendlier than the customary Vorta dismissive sneer. “I have wanted to meet you for a long time. It is so good to finally be in your company. We are all enormously grateful for the chance you are giving us: to allow us to begin to atone for our actions on Cardassia.” She imbues her words with just the right amount of regret – enough to convey a respectful amount of sorrow without coming off as overly guilty. Someone should pass along compliments to her cloner, Damar thinks sarcastically. His mind jumps to another question he has pondered off and on for the last several years: are Vorta geneticists ever assigned to engineer their own clones? He finds there is something vaguely unsavory about that notion – bordering on incestuous.

“The pleasure,” he grinds out, struggling to finish the lie, “is all mine.” He and his adjunct had prepared a brief statement for this moment – and he’d dutifully rehearsed it on the flight from Cardassia. How did it start again? He draws a brief blank before the words belatedly come to him, and his tongue begins to instinctively form the first syllables. In the blandest voice he can muster, he says, “The Cardassian Union is pleased by the Dominion’s efforts to regain the trust of our people after the actions of the convicted war criminal Founder-” this had been the official stance the governments of the Alpha Quadrant had agreed to, for the sake of the fledgling armistice: that the Female Founder would shoulder the majority of the blame regarding the massacres on Cardassia Prime. Damar had not approved of the decision, but his sign off had not been necessary, and Kell had not solicited his opinion. “- and we remain optimistic that your contributions to rebuilding Cardassia and aiding our populace will be the first steps to a long-lasting peace.”

“ _Well said_ , Legate,” Kilana purrs. Her teeth flash as she smiles- as pearly white as the poisonous meat of a Kalbissian fruit. “You sum up my own thoughts so succinctly.”

Damar casts his gaze around at the Vorta assembled around her, wondering which one of them will be accompanying him and Kira’s Trill wife back to Cardassia. “Should we finalize these arrangements?” he asks, tilting his head to indicate the Wardroom. Frankly, he’s a bit annoyed they haven’t already entered; he’s come to find Starfleet-issued chairs to be rather comfortable, and he’s already grown weary of all this literal standing on ceremony. 

Kilana hesitates, not meeting his gaze. Her head bows slightly and her hands fold in front of her chest in a display of Vorta obeisance that looks nearly genuine. “The ambassador is already in the Wardroom,” she says. Her eyes flicker up to Kira. “Colonel – I do hope that wasn’t presumptive of us, but your first officer gave us permission.”

One of the Starfleet officers awkwardly shifts on the balls of his feet, and Kira shoots an impressively devastating glower in his direction. “I would’ve preferred you wait for my authorization,” she says tightly. “But what’s done is done.”

“Apologies,” Kilana murmurs. “He had hoped to meet with Legate Damar in private.” 

“In private?” Damar asks suspiciously. Kilana stares at him expectantly, a benign smile fixed to her lips, and he remembers his place, his mission. He grits his teeth and says, “Very well.”

“Perfect,” Kilana breathes, putting on a minor show of gratitude, as if refusal had been an option. “You do us a great honor, Legate.” She’s laying it on rather thick, even by Vorta standards, and Damar feels an icy spark of dread shoot down his spine, coming to rest in the pit of his belly, right where the memory of Quark’s disgusting sludge-drink resides. The combination makes him queasy, and he wonders how much of diplomatic incident it would create if he vomited on Kilana’s obnoxiously fashionable shoes. Fortunately, the nausea passes after a few worrisome seconds, and when Damar is appropriately composed, he stalks forward to activate the door panel. The door opens with a high-pitched sound, like a knife scrapping over metal, and Damar steps inside before he can think better of it, feeling as if he’s marching to his own execution. The door slides shut behind him with that same screeching, metallic whine, and he winces at the noise, momentarily too distracted to notice the Vorta standing before him.

When he does, he finds himself struck mute by shock, and he stumbles a half-step closer to the Vorta, trying to make sure his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him.

A ghost stands before him, serene and composed and altogether perfectly formed, unaffected by the myriad of deaths that had been visited upon its previous incarnations. Damar takes a few steadying breaths, giving the adrenaline time to cool in his bloodstream, and his initial surprise is quickly replaced by an old resignation. They’ve done this dance so many times, and somewhere in the back of his mind Damar has always known they would come together to do it again. Tiredly, he asks, “Which Weyoun are you?”

“I am Weyoun 9,” the ghost says primly. He offers a smile that is slightly too patronizing to be called _polite_ , and déjà vu bores into Damar with the blinding force of a drill diver. As if on an afterthought, he adds, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Legate.”

Damar’s mouth goes dry, for this has suddenly become uncomfortably reminiscent of his first meeting with Weyoun 6 – the kind, imperfect clone, made lovely by his defectiveness – and he balls his hands into fists, trying to ward away the old, twitching impulse to seek out a bottle of kanar.

“I’m glad to see you,” Weyoun continues, either oblivious to Damar’s inner turmoil or merely unbothered by it. “Weyoun 8 thought you to be dead.” He examines Damar carefully, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I was surprised you declined the opportunity to reinstate yourself as the leader of Cardassia. From what I’ve heard, you were almost obscenely popular with both the military as well as Cardassian civilians. Nobody would’ve contested your rule.” His eyes sparkle with a dangerous mischief. “It’s not too late, of course… I doubt many would oppose you if you challenged Legate Kell for leadership.”

Damar finds himself abruptly exhausted. He blindly reaches out for the nearest chair, pulling it towards him and collapsing into it. “You really don’t waste time,” he growls. “Up to your old tricks already?”

Weyoun only smiles delightedly at this, and chooses a seat besides Damar, near enough that Damar can smell the faint aroma of night-blossoms that hang off the Vorta like a perfume: that biochemical quirk the Founders saw fit to include in his genetic makeup since he was Weyoun 6. His fingers splay out imploringly on the table, and he twists to lean ever-so-slightly closer to Damar. “My motives aren’t nearly so sinister, I assure you. I’d simply be remiss not to inquire why the Cardassian war hero himself chose to once again make himself subservient to another.”

“I had my reasons,” Damar snaps. “Not that they’re any business of yours.” He clenches his jaw, inhaling through his nostrils. It is unfair how easily Weyoun has always been able to throw him so completely off-balance, how quickly they’ve fallen once again into their old patterns. He tells himself that this time, at least, he is not the Dominion’s puppet – that Weyoun doesn’t wield so much as an iota of power over him. He doesn’t find much beyond a cold comfort in this reminder. He exhales. “And what about _you_ , Weyoun? Why are _you_ in this position? Which Founder did you piss off enough to get saddled with this assignment?”

There is a pregnant pause. “I volunteered,” Weyoun answers after a beat, his starshine eyes sharp and his tone strained with some elusive emotion Damar cannot guess at.

“Why?” he asks bluntly.

Weyoun removes his hands from the table, folding them neatly into his lap, and lifts his shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I wanted to do my part,” he says airily. “The Dominion has every intention of making amends.” 

Damar scoffs. “I suppose neither of us is being very honest, are we?” He raps his fingers against the table, setting an anxious tempo. His heart has begun to race in his chest, generating an impatient, agitated heat that floods into his limbs. The Starfleet-issue chair no longer seems as comfortable as it did a few minutes ago. He pushes away from the table and stands, unable to tolerate sitting still for another second. To his dismay, Weyoun immediately rises as well, shadowing him as he moves towards the head of the table, near the end of the room. “I don’t want you here,” he says coolly. Weyoun belongs securely in the past, along with all of his other memories of the Dominion.

“Isn’t it ironic?” Weyoun asks. He pauses, seemingly savoring the opportunity to keep Damar in suspense, and flashes his best approximation of a good-natured smile – the one Damar had, on several occasions, caught him practicing in front of a mirror. He takes a measured step forward, rounding the table and intruding rather egregiously into Damar’s personal space, stretching out his arms in petitionary supplication. “ _If_ you had remained leader of Cardassia, or made an attempt to wrest that power back for yourself, you would’ve actually had the authority to request a different ambassador. If you so desired, you could’ve even banned my entire clone lineage from Cardassian space – forever!” He laughs lightly at this, as if it is a funny joke and not something Damar is already starting to fantasize about.

“You’re making a mistake,” Damar says, changing tactics and moving forwards to slowly circle the Vorta. If he can’t appeal to Weyoun’s non-existent sense of decency, he can always try to appeal to his survival instinct. Weyoun keeps his head forward, but his gaze silently follows Damar as the man continues to pace around him. “You may find that Cardassians remember the face of the Vorta who acted as the mouthpiece for the Founder who ordered the genocide of our species.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Weyoun says indifferently. “Cardassians pride themselves on their superior memory, but your species’ xenophobia has always run a tad stronger. The Dominion long ago realized all Vorta look about… indistinguishable to the majority of your people.” He grins. “And besides, I trust you’re physically capable of protecting me, should the need to do so arise.”

Damar shudders as a mental image of Weyoun using him as a humanoid shield rises unprompted to the forefront of his mind. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he warns him.

Weyoun looks unconcerned. “This will be _fun,_ ” he assures him. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“Old times?” Damar asks skeptically. “You mean both of us shot in the chest with a phaser and left for dead?”

Weyoun’s eyes widen, as luminous as nuclear radiation. “I’ve missed that sense of humor,” he purrs. “Truly.” He cocks his head, examining Damar, and then gestures towards the door. “Shall we?”

It really is like old times, Damar finds himself reflecting sullenly. It might be a Cardassian Legate yanking on his leash instead of a Dominion Founder, but once again, he finds himself bereft of any good options, chained together to another Weyoun. Despair is starting to settle in, and he bitterly realizes that he is well and truly fucked. 


	3. Chapter 3

Damar could not claim that the journey back to Cardassia was the most awkward space-flight he’d taken - _that_ dubious honor would be reserved for the return flight from his first mission to the moon of Mitka-ok, where he’d gotten sick from the low-gravity and had to spend the next five hours strapped into a shuttle with his Gul and Glinn, all of them pretending not to see or smell the vomit crusted onto his boots. It had been a supremely mortifying and formative memory, one that had become the standard by which all of his subsequent humiliations were measured against. _This_ did not quite edge that one out, but it did make a valiant effort to get included in his top three.

His two bodyguards had not seemed especially keen on either of the new arrivals – Damar couldn’t find it within himself to blame them for their reluctance to travel with a member of the Dominion, but they had their orders, and besides that, their cold-shouldering had extended to Kira’s Trill, who Damar found to be remarkably inoffensive. He would’ve disciplined the guards then and there if they had been _his_ men, and not just officers on loan from Kell, but they were not, so instead he had glared ineffectually and mentally filed _address poor conduct of bodyguards_ on his to-do list of items to discuss with the Legate. Unfortunately, that list had been steadily growing over the last several months, and the minor insubordination of two guards did not rank highly. He shot another withering glower in their direction for good measure, but as soon as their ship disengaged from the station’s docking pylon both of them had resumed their earlier exercise of napping with their eyes open. He’d had his suspicions before, but this time he could plainly hear the more muscular one start to _snore_.

Their shuttle was an older model, equipped with powerful engines but not, unfortunately, the sturdiest hull or the most well-maintained gravity net. The gravitational fields would eventually synchronize to compensate for their speed, but the first stretch of the trip was bumpier than most humanoids would consider comfortable. He’d had to assist Weyoun with his harness after his bodyguards had conveniently ‘forgotten’, and the conspiratorial smile Weyoun had flashed him – as if they were both in on a secret – had unnerved him. He’d quickly turned away and returned to his own seat, but he’d felt the weight of the Vorta’s stare on the back of his neck, sending spikes of heat down his spine.

He’d made an attempt to distract himself with his other guest, but the first pass at conversation had gone about as smoothly as their ride. Damar had kept thinking of her as variably: Kira’s wife, the Trill, or the Starfleet Lieutenant, which was properly not the best long-term strategy if she was going to be working alongside him for the next several months. Uncertain if it was customary in her species to use last names or first names, he’d decided his first order of business should be to ask her how she preferred to be addressed. He hadn’t considered his tone of voice to be particularly rude, but the question had made her jolt back as if he’d zapped her with a shock baton, and she’d mumbled out a few names before finally deciding on ‘Ezri. Just call me Ezri.’ She’d looked intensely queasy, and Damar – uncertain if he’d accidentally committed a cultural faux-pas of some sort – had let their conversation die not long after. She’d started to chat with his pilot instead, and when the man’s friendliness escalated into a blatant, unprofessional flirtation, Damar had felt compelled, for Kira’s sake, to snap out ‘ _she’s_ married, _soldier’_. The pilot had colored with embarrassment, and an awkward silence fell over all of them, punctuated only by Weyoun’s muffled laughter and the rumbling snore of the larger guard. Damar had spent the rest of the trip back toying with the design specs for a new orbital array and avoiding any incidental eye contact with the Vorta, before finally, mercifully, falling asleep to the faint groan of their craft laboriously pulling itself back to home.

In his dreams he was amidst fire and smoke, and Weyoun loomed above him like destruction incarnate, as incandescent as a supernova, violet irises as bright as liquid plasma and rippling like displaced air around a deploying bomb. 

When they’d finally touched down, he’d left Ezri and Weyoun in the hands of the bodyguards and the fatigued attendant who had greeted them upon their arrival. The correct protocol for foreign dignitaries was for the highest ranking officer to escort them to their assigned quarters as a show of respect, but he was drained from the journey, and he longed for the quiet sanctuary of his work. It was a sanctuary that would soon be disrupted by the presence of Weyoun in less than two days, and he fully intended to enjoy his office while it was still Vorta-free. He’d promised to take Ezri to dinner once she finished settling in, and then rushed out to his office as fast as his quickly dwindling dignity would allow.

All in all it had been an unpleasant experience, and one his thoughts keep stubbornly returning to even now. The memory of Weyoun – and his smug, private little smiles – swims up to his mind, and he feels his hands automatically clench around the PADD held between them. He hears a faint cough from the woman sitting across from him, and he startles back to attention, shaking away thoughts of the Vorta. She blinks, giving him a curious look and gesturing for the PADD. He slides it across the table to her, watching carefully as she picks it up for her review. Gilora Rejal is young for her position, but the Dominion assault on their world had opened up a good deal of vacancies within the various Cardassian ministries. Promotion via death of a superior - how _Klingon_.

Rejal’s finger flicks over the surface of the PADD, scrolling through the assembled blueprints and mechanical notes, humming approvingly every so often. “This might be workable,” she says contemplatively, eyes still fixed on the screen nestled in her palm. “Some of the engineering diagrams are a bit crude but… overall I think we could certainly do something with this.” She looks up, and returns the PADD to him. “Send me the schematics, and my department will start the prototype development. Who was it that pieced this together? Your adjunct? Or that woman I met on my way in-” she frowns, searching for a name, and then snaps her fingers triumphantly, “Sica Ajic.”

Damar hesitates, unsure of how to respond. “I did,” he admits at last, a flush of heat sweeping along his neck.

Rejal’s face goes carefully blank, arranging itself into a mask of distant politeness. “Of course,” she says. “Their accomplishments are your accomplishments, Legate. Forgive me if I seemed to imply otherwise.”

Damar has half a mind to drop the entire thing, but for some reason unknown to him – lingering frustration from the trip over, perhaps – he persists. “You misunderstand,” he tells her. “This is my work.” To give credit where credit is due, he adds, “Ajic helped me refine some of the math for the solar conversion, but the designs are mine.”

“Ah.” Rejal pulls back, collecting her hands into her lap. The green glow of the nearby monitors paints her face an unhealthy color. “How very rare for a man to be so well-versed in the sciences.”

“Yes,” he says shortly, now irritated with himself for pushing the issue. “I’ll send the schematics over soon. Thank you for your time, deputy minister.”

Rejal inclines her head and rises, heading for the door. Before she has reached it she pauses and turns back to Damar, a strained expression furrowing her brow. “Legate,” she begins, biting her lip. “I’m not sure how to say this, but do you really think this project will get approved?”

It’s an odd question, considering both of their ranks and respective positions in the government. “It has been approved,” he reminds her. “By you. And by me.”

Her gaze shifts nervously around the room, as if checking to make sure they aren’t being watched. “I just mean… Legate Kell has been funneling larger and larger swathes of the reconstruction budget into defense technology.”

“There won’t be any issues,” Damar assures her. Perhaps his certainty is unwarranted – this would not be the first time Kell decided to scrap one of his pet projects in favor of something more militarily advantageous. But energy demands are at record highs on Cardassia, and the Dominion’s promise of aid aside, he doubts even the most hawkish members of Central Command would object to this.

Rejal still looks skeptical, but her lips press tightly together and with a curt nod she exits the room. Damar doesn’t watch her leave, but instead stares at the space her body had occupied, unsettled. An imprint of her face, contorted with disapproval, seems to linger before him; it had been an intimately familiar expression, the same one he himself had worn on countless occasions, every time he had to restrain his tongue in the Dominion’s presence. He scowls, disturbed by the unwelcome comparison. Searching for a distraction, he checks his console for the time. It’s late afternoon – a little early to be heading out, but not egregiously so. This room was supposed to be his last refuge from the Dominion, but he’s finding himself suddenly ill-at-ease here, with the dark, claustrophobic press of the walls surrounding him and the sickly way the green display lights mingle with the shadows. His heart begins to race and he feels a cold sweat collecting on the back of his neck. _Fuck it_ he decides. What’s the point of being a Legate if he can’t skirt the rules once in a while?

* * *

He ends up using the extra time to make a stop at his apartment and change out of his armor into the softer fabrics the civilian population favors. He permits himself the luxury of taking a detour to the embassy building where Weyoun and Ezri are being housed, following a path that leads through ongoing construction and around the scrap heap where the Cardassian Art Museum used to be, savoring the simple pleasure of being merely one anonymous man in a crowd. Out of the distinctive military attire, there are few Cardassians that look at him twice. It’s freeing to blend in so seamlessly with his people, without the burden of being _Legate Damar_ and all of what that has come to represent. He has been a simple soldier, he has been a sycophantic officer, he has been a Dominion puppet, and now he has become the _hero of Cardassia_. He looks back on his life, on all the various roles he has assumed, and finds a common thread linking them together: he has never chosen his own identity, not really. The only time he decided his own role was when he turned against the Dominion and became a resistance fighter – and see how long _that_ lasted before he was fashioned into a legend.

The sun begins to sink in the sky, and Damar picks up his pace, heading to the gates of the embassy compound. He flashes his ID at the guards posted by the entrance and they wave him inside, guessing at his purpose and offering directions to Ezri’s quarters. One of them is a woman, and he thinks back to Rejal, wondering if she would consider the guard to be a failure to her sex, wasting away her potential in favor of lugging around Cardassian armaments and kowtowing to Central Command.

The embassy has been adjusted, albeit marginally, to accommodate for the average humanoid temperature and light preference. The end result is a building that is _ever-so-slightly_ uncomfortable by Cardassian sensibilities, just a little too bright and a fraction too cold, in a way that is barely consciously detectable, but instead registers along the peripheries of his nervous system like a dark speck on the edge of his vision. He moves briskly through the corridors, passing a trio of gray-suited Romulans who give him odd looks, and an Andorian in shell-pink robes who doesn’t look at him at all.

He finally arrives at the door he assumes connects to Ezri’s quarters, and pauses before ringing the comm, feeling suddenly underprepared without a housewarming gift of some sort. It would be customary on Cardassia to greet a high-ranking arrival with a bottle of vintage kanar, a sign of respect and trust rolled into one: _we’ll toast each other’s health, and also, by drinking this I’ll demonstrate my faith you aren’t actively trying to poison me_. Damar’s finger hovers over the ringer for a beat longer, and he thinks he hears the sounds of hushed conversation from within, as well as music: a low, sorrowful warbling in a language he guesses to be Klingon. He presses down and abruptly the voices stop, and then a second later the song is summarily silenced.

The door opens, and Ezri greets him with a bright smile, wearing a black jumper that is almost as tragically generic as the outfits the Bajoran militia seems to adore. He wonders if Kira has somehow brainwashed her wife into thinking such boring clothes are fashionable, and the idea amuses him. “You’re early!” Her hands stretch out to rest on either side of the doorframe, as if barring his access. Her cheek dimples inwards as she chews on the inside of it, her countenance taking on a guilty cast. She looks over her shoulder, and then after another short pause finally stands aside to give Damar access to her quarters, backing away from the door in a display that looks almost like surrender.

Damar follows her inside, and then abruptly wishes he hadn’t. There’s a sofa arranged in the center of the room, a monstrosity of distinctly non-Cardassian origin – neon and obscenely fluffy, as if some frazzled administrator’s stereotyped idea of what aliens like – and upon it, completing the nightmare image, is Weyoun, sitting straight-backed with a regal and entirely unearned familiarity as if the entire compound belongs to him.

If Weyoun is surprised by his presence, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he smiles with feigned warmness. “Damar,” he croons. “So good of you to drop by.”

Damar stills, his heart stuttering in his chest, aching with the shadow of an old wound. “These aren’t your quarters,” he grates out. It’s a distressingly stupid observation, and in response Weyoun’s eyes glitter with a vicious mirth.

“Of course not,” he says, with a deliberately mocking slowness, “But I’m only across the hall. Dax was kind enough to invite me over.”

Ezri, whose existence he had promptly forgotten at the first sight of Weyoun, materializes to his side. She offers a faintly apologetic smile and explains, “He was curious about my collection of Klingon opera. We’d, ah, talked about it a bit on the shuttle. I think you were asleep at that point.”

“I’ve always been fascinated by music as an art form,” Weyoun says. “It’s so… transient. The opera was beyond my capacity to truly appreciate, of course, but the cadence was quite interesting, and I enjoyed the vibrations it generated.” He touches his sternum, as if indicating the shriveled thing that passes as his heart. “An intriguing sensation.”

Ezri laughs. “Just wait until you get to the _real_ classics. The solo work in Gav’ot toh’va…” she trails off with an appreciative sigh.

Weyoun rises from the sofa, and reaches into folds of his jacket pockets, plucking out a crystalline trinket and holding it aloft on display. “And, Damar, look-” as he speaks, the object trembles faintly and begins to radiate a pale light, cycling through a series of soft colors, “-Dax, what did you say this was again?”

“An Orion star-shard,” she tells him. “It reacts to sound waves. Apparently, there are beaches in Orion where the shores are covered in these crystals – can you imagine that? An entire landscape pulsing with light to the crash of the waves?”

Damar stares at Weyoun, at the alien souvenir in his hand. For the briefest instant – in the empty space between a heartbeat – all of the cunning drains from Weyoun’s eyes. They glimmer with a bright, innocent curiosity, and he raises the star-shard with a delighted grin, as if expecting Damar to share in his pleasure.

“Childish baubles,” Damar snaps, his chest burning again with a phantom pain.

Weyoun’s smile doesn’t falter, but he lowers the object and his eyes sharpen, curiosity shifting almost imperceptibly into a colder sort of inquisitiveness. “What _are_ you doing here, Damar?” Weyoun asks, his voice silkily pleasant, as smooth as an oil spill.

Damar opens his mouth to respond on instinct, and then belatedly remembers that he no longer has any sort of obligation to Weyoun, and there are no Jem’Hadar breathing down his neck to ensure his obedience. He ignores the Vorta, and turns instead to Ezri, relishing the newfound ability to be so flagrantly rude without any fear of reprisal. It is a childish impulse, but being able to actuate his long-standing fantasy of cold-shouldering Weyoun, consequence-free, is at the moment a delightfully novel prospect. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“Ready for what?” Weyoun says petulantly, unhappy, Damar guesses, about being left out of the loop, and he can almost picture the look on the Vorta’s face, imagine the way his eyes are surely narrowing in suspicion.

Ezri glances towards Weyoun and her eyes cloud over with guilt once more. “Ah, Damar was kind enough to invite me to dinner.” She shifts on the balls of her feet, her gaze flickering back to Damar. “I’m ready whenever.”

Damar doesn’t intend to, but he finds himself turning to look at Weyoun. The Vorta’s face tightens almost imperceptibly, and his eyes shadow with an emotion Damar cannot make out. “I see,” he says coolly. He flashes a sudden smile. “I haven’t heard much about Cardassian cuisine but I’m sure you’ll both enjoy it.”

Damar barely manages to hold back a snort. Typical Weyoun: unable to resist any available opportunity to insult Cardassian culture. The Vorta moves towards the door, and cups the star-shard in his hands, staring down at it one last time before offering it back to Ezri.

She shakes her head. “You keep it.”

His palm closes around it and he slips it into his pocket, nodding politely in thanks. He shoots one last lingering look over his shoulder before he leaves, his gaze drifting between Ezri and Damar.

Ezri stares at the door as it closes behind him. “Do you think we should’ve invited him?” she whispers.

Damar stares down at her as if she’s lost her mind, and quickly tries to determine whether it was an attempt at a joke – for all he knows this could be a textbook example of Trill humor. He decides against laughing on the off-chance she’s being serious, and merely says, “What’s the point? He can’t taste anything.”

Ezri frowns. “He doesn’t have any built-in auditory appreciation either, but he seemed to enjoy the music we listened to.”

Damar has no response to that, and this conversation is beginning to make the scales along his neck ridges itch. “Maybe next time,” he lies. He has absolutely no intention on following through on that promise, but guilt stirs at the trusting smile Ezri gives him. 

* * *

The restaurant is close to the embassy, and they arrive as the sun makes its final descent over Cardassia City. They’re seated outside, by the street, and overhead the spill of the sunset bleeds across the horizon, turning the skyline as red as polished rubies. The sight of it is sufficiently lovely enough to distract Damar from his rapidly multiplying list of problems, and he feels the tension in his shoulders evaporate for perhaps the first time in weeks.

Ezri is staring at him, her blue eyes sparkling with faint amusement. “What is it?” he asks suspiciously, feeling some of that tension return to his muscles.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” she asks him.

It’s phrased a bit like a trick question, and Damar falls back onto his standard policy regarding such games (a policy refined down to a science thanks to Dukat and Weyoun) which is to simply not play at all. “No,” he says. “Jog my memory.”

To his relief, Ezri doesn’t seem remotely offended. Instead, a smile plays across her lips. “You saved my life,” she says softly. “Back on Cardassia, three years ago. I was one of the two Starfleet prisoners you let escape.”

Damar recalls that moment well: his first, fledgling act of true defiance against the Dominion. Nevertheless, for all of his species’ vaunted memories, the snapshot in his mind is imperfect: he remembers a Klingon warrior, and a young companion of indeterminate gender. If he had been pressed to wager a guess, he would’ve said they were a human boy. He stares at Ezri, trying to superimpose her features onto the companion from his memories, and finds her eyes to be shining with a look of gratitude. “It was nothing,” he says brusquely, looking away – unable to meet the expression in her eyes.

For a moment he’s afraid she’s going to protest, insist that she owes him her life or something equally disturbing. Instead she says, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to” and presses the sleek nub at the center of the table, activating the hologram of the menu.

They sit in silence for a few moments as Ezri scans over the holographic display, squinting at it with an exaggerated focus. She traces a finger across one of the selections – a zabo meat stew – and then laughs. “I have no idea what any of this says,” she admits. “My tricorder is back at the embassy and I’ve only learned a handful of Kardasi phrases. I’ll trust your judgment – what’s good?”

Her blind faith in Damar’s ability to select a halfway edible meal for her is amusing, and he chuckles. “I have no idea,” he tells her. “My adjunct recommended this place. She said it’s a favorite of Gul Jazat. I don’t go out often myself.”

“It seems nice,” Ezri says. “Actually, this entire area is beautiful.” She hesitates, as if unsure of the best way to phrase her thoughts. “Cardassia… seems to be healing well.”

“Central Command prioritized… certain areas for reconstruction,” Damar says, struggling to keep his bitterness from infesting his words. They uneven distribution of aid and funds is an old point of contention between him and Kell, and it’s not a subject he’s keen on diving into with Ezri. He tries to keep his explanation as succinct as possible as he adds, “The streets surrounding the embassy are not accurate representations of the rest of the city.”

“That’s a shame,” she says quietly. “Hopefully the Dominion is sincere about their desire to send resources.”

The greater shame, Damar thinks but does not say, is that the Cardassian people have been reduced to relying on the largesse of their oppressors. It is a devastating wound to their pride – to have to look for salvation in the same empire that brought them so low. With his mind now occupied by reminders of the Dominion occupation, Damar finds himself thinking back to Weyoun, and his unexpected appearance in Ezri’s quarters. “What were you doing with the Vorta?” he asks.

Ezri looks down, flicking a finger out at the menu and causing it to spin in the air, the spiraling clusters of Kardasi words twirling like chariot wheels. “Are you accusing me of something?” she asks at last. There is no trace of defensiveness in her voice that Damar can detect, only a calm curiosity.

Damar clenches his jaw, and bites out, “No.” He quickly adds, “But I can’t understand why you’d want to spend any time with him. You do remember that it was Weyoun who tried to have you executed, don’t you?”

Ezri looks contemplative, but only offers a shrug. “He’s good company. And he has so many interesting stories – some of the planets his line of clones have been assigned to are unlike anything we know of in the Alpha Quadrant.” She pauses. “And besides, it’s nice to be able to talk with someone like me – someone who knows what it is to be the latest incarnation in a chain that predates them.”

Damar has absolutely no idea what she means – she might as well be talking to him in Breen – but he has a nagging suspicion this is somehow related to the literature on the Trill species he’s been neglecting to read. His confusion must look truly pathetic, for Ezri immediately takes pity on him. “My people can bond with a symbiotic organism,” she explains. “The symbiont outlives the host and is passed down through generations of Trill. When I inherited mine, I also inherited the memories… and essences… of my predecessors. Much like he is the latest Weyoun, I am the latest Dax.”

“But you do know what he’s done, don’t you?” Damar asks, frustrated by her nonchalance. The menu is somehow still slowly, dizzyingly, spinning in the air, and he reaches out a hand to envelope it. He squeezes and it deactivates, the hologram blinking out of existence in his fist with a soft, almost plaintive hum.

“Of course I do,” Ezri tells him. “But one of my earlier hosts was a murderer. I have his memories, his _soul_ even – he is a part of me. Should I have to answer for his crimes?”

“No,” Damar says, flushing with mingled annoyance and embarrassment. He should not have to _justify_ his mistrust of the Vorta to a _Starfleet_ officer of all people. It’s surreal. Feeling as if he’s somehow slipped into a bad dream, he says, “But it’s different. You were – I assume – your own being before you gained the symbiont. An individual. Vorta are not.” He remembers how seamlessly the newly activated Weyoun’s would slide into their roles – with the sole exception of Weyoun 6, defective and gentle from the outset.

Ezri’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps I’m biased,” she says carefully. “But as your appointed Starfleet representative I feel it’s my duty to inform you that – at the least – you should try to make _some_ attempt to reach out to him, for diplomatic relations if nothing else. Wouldn’t that be in the best interests of Cardassia?”

It’s a low blow, invoking his duty to Cardassia, and not one he has any argument prepared for. He opens his mouth, not sure of what he intends to say, only to be cut off by the arrival of a younger waitress. Her hair is arranged into long, thick braids that have been embedded with bits of gold, and they glint lowly as she twists her head to stare at him, her face scrunched up as if she’s attempting to solve a complex mathematical equation. Her eyes glaze with awe, and in a confidential whisper she asks, “Are you… _the_ Legate Damar?” She draws out his title like a prayer, and there is an undercurrent of reverence in her voice. She wears the expression of a worshipper in the throes of adulation, like a rapturous Hebitian heretic at service, like a Vorta prostrating themselves before their changeling gods.

“You’re mistaken,” Damar tells her, trying desperately to think of a believable pseudonym. He’s never been remotely skilled in the arts of subterfuge, much to Dukat’s constant consternation, and somehow every single male Cardassian name seems to elude him in his moment. “I’m Toby,” he blurts out, flinching at the obviousness of the lie and wishing he could just sink into the ground and disappear forever. Behind the waitress, Ezri raises a hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle.

Somehow the waitress seems to believe him, and the worship drains from her eyes as she regards Damar as nothing greater or lesser than a mortal man. “That’s Bajoran, isn’t it?” Unsure of what to do, he nods and she gives him a sympathetic look. “I was born on Bajor too. My parents thought it would be cute to give me a Bajoran name.” She rolls her eyes. “ _Dasu_. It’s not even a female name.” She sighs. “Anyway, what can I get you and your… friend?” She shoots Ezri a skeptical look, perhaps trying to determine the nature of her relationship with Damar. The taboo against interspecies relationships has softened, marginally, over the past several years, but Cardassia has always been a world of strict traditions and Damar doubts it’ll evolve into a shining beacon of tolerance anytime soon.

“Yes, my friend,” he agrees, watching as her face relaxes with approval. He makes a snap decision, and hopes Ezri won’t resent him for it later. “Two zabo stews, and a bottle of rock wine.”

She leaves, and Ezri leans forward across the table. “Not comfortable with being a celebrity?” she asks.

That’s understating things rather dramatically, but Damar nods. “Something like that.”

The rest of the meal passes pleasantly enough, and after two glasses of wine Damar is able to successfully pry stories about Kira from Ezri, one’s he knows the Colonel would find sufficiently embarrassing. (“Remind me to tell you about our flight back from our honeymoon,” she slurs at one point, choking back laughter. “We got passage on a commercial freighter and she tried to outdrink a _Klingon_.”) Afterwards, he walks her back to the embassy, and by the time they’ve reached her quarters she’s sobered up enough to point in the direction of Weyoun’s door and remind him of her previous advice. She is not, however, sober enough to resist drunkenly adding, “Don’t be an asshole.”

* * *

His sleep is restless that night, and he wakes up before dawn and finds himself unable to get back to bed. Gripped by some nervous energy, he quickly slicks back his hair and dresses in loose clothes, leaving his apartment and jogging towards the embassy before he can think better of it. The guards at the gate yawn sleepily as arrives ( _top notch security detail_ , he thinks dryly), and seem amused by his early arrival as they wave him through. There’s little activity in the compound, and the only signs of life he finds are the same group of Romulans he noticed the day before. A fourth Romulan has appeared to join their trio, and the new addition examines him with a look of sharp calculation, cold enough that an icy shiver races down his spine. 

He makes it to Weyoun’s quarters in good time, and presses down on the ringer, pettily hoping he’ll interrupt the Vorta’s sleep. He’s quickly disappointed when Weyoun opens the door a few seconds later, looking wide-awake and frustratingly composed. He blinks up at Damar, violet eyes glimmering in a way that is disconcertingly distracting. “Damar? What do I owe this… unexpected pleasure?” His lip curls into a sneering approximation of a smile, and he slowly runs his gaze up Damar’s body as if expecting to find some clue to his motives stitched into his clothes. 

The words are painful to get out. “We’ll be working together starting tomorrow,” Damar says. He swallows down the modifier of _unfortunately._ “And I thought-” he breaks off, unwilling to allow Weyoun to falsely believe he came to this decision independently, “- it was _suggested_ to me that perhaps….” Weyoun is staring at him expectantly, and he colors, briefly unable to spit the rest of the sentence out. Finally, reluctantly, he finishes, “Perhaps in the name of cooperation we could make an attempt to engage socially.”

“How thoughtful,” Weyoun says, “of Dax.” Nevertheless, his smile softens fractionally into an expression that is almost sincere. “What did you have in mind?”

“If you’d be interested-” he begins, gritting his teeth and regretting his decision to come here more with every passing second. “- I could teach you some basic self-defense. There’s a training area on the roof of this compound that I doubt is in high demand.”

Weyoun rears back as if Damar has slapped him, and then his features solidify into an expression of deep disgust. The Vorta regards him contemptuously, with a look of offended scorn that had previously been reserved for occasions where he’d felt Damar had been insufficiently deferential to the Founder. “What do you take me for?” he hisses. “A Jem’Hadar?”

His reaction knocks Damar off-balance, and he glowers at nothing in particular, a hot blush radiating down the sides of his neck. He had assumed, _wrongly_ it turned out, that Weyoun would’ve appreciated the offer, considering his earlier, misplaced, delight during their exchange about his physical safety. “Unlike you, I’m not half-blind,” he retorts hotly. “If I’d somehow confused you with a Jem’Hadar I wouldn’t be making this offer. They can take care of themselves.”

“I am a _Vorta_ ,” Weyoun insists. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means you’re a collection of breakable parts, on a planet full of people who hate you,” Damar tells him. He’s not sure why he’s arguing with Weyoun at all – there is an unheeded, logical part of his mind reminding him that he should take Weyoun’s rejection gratefully, freed from any promises to Ezri. “I’m a capable instructor.” 

“ _You?_ ” Weyoun laughs joylessly, and gives him a look of icy disdain. “Let me tell you what _you_ are, Damar,” he says evenly, his eyes narrowing. “You are a brute. Built for war.”

Damar chuckles before the sting of the insult has time to burrow in. “ _There’s_ the Weyoun I remember. And to think that Ezri had almost convinced me to consider you a new entity entirely.”

Weyoun flinches back, and his eyes widen as a frission of doubt distorts his aloof appearance. He licks his lips, looking uncharacteristically reflective. “That may have been slightly unfair,” he says after a brief pause. It’s not a particularly penitent apology, but Damar is willing to take it: from Weyoun, any admittance of wrongdoing is a rarity. Weyoun smooths his features clean of emotion and then rearranges them into an imploring expression that is almost certainly carefully manufactured. “I could be… amenable to this.”

“If you say so,” Damar says, unconvinced. “I’m not trying to force you into it.”

“It’ll be a novel experience,” Weyoun says breezily, smiling mildly as if he hadn’t just erupted with cold rage at the suggestion mere moments ago. “Should I get changed?”

Damar scans his attire, taking in the heavy, rigid fabrics layered unevenly upon each other. “Only if you want to be able to move.”

Weyoun grins, and ushers him forward. Reluctantly, Damar steps inside and the door immediately snaps shut behind him like the jaws of a bekkir trap. The first thing Damar notices is the sofa – a twin to the one in Ezri’s living area, except this one is also striped with yellow and thereby twice as tacky. He winces at the sight, and when he looks away he discovers the afterimage of it has been seared into his vision and he blinks rapidly to make it dissolve. Overall, Weyoun’s quarters are slightly smaller than Ezri’s, although perhaps that is just the inclusion of a Vulcan meditation alcove in the corner (a remnant from the last inhabitant?) making them feel more cramped. There’s not much else to see – there’s replicator buried in the wall, Ezri’s star-shard and a few other assorted knickknacks littering a small table, and in the back an entryway to a small bedroom. Weyoun sweeps his hand around proudly. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m afraid to see how this will look when you finish decorating,” Damar tells him.

Weyoun doesn’t seem particularly insulted. “I’m considering putting in a rug,” he says. “Something soft, or with interesting textures.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I would’ve done so already, but these replicators are so limited.” 

“What a tragedy,” Damar says, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Isn’t it?” Weyoun frowns down at the barren floor, before perking up. “Fortunately, the replicator should prove adequate with clothing. What should I instruct it to make?”

Damar shrugs. “I’d recommend simple and breathable.”

Weyoun moves gamely to the replicator, and as he works the device Damar realizes he may have made a grave error by not providing him with more detailed directions. He consoles himself with the knowledge that the replicator is unlikely to be programmed with many options beyond the basics, thus limiting Weyoun’s ability to create anything too abominable. The replicator flashes with light, and Weyoun quickly sweeps the bundle of cloth into his arms before Damar can get a good look at it. Then he dumps it to the ground and begins to shuck off his own jacket and pants.

Damar stiffens, pivoting sharply on his heel to turn his back to Weyoun. The Vorta’s mocking laughter drifts out to him. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, _Damar_.” That is certainly not a reminder Damar needs. As if he could have forgotten his… indiscretions with the Vorta’s predecessors. All the mistakes he has ever made seem to spiral out before him in his mind’s eye, numerous enough to fill a galaxy, and within that galaxy there are entire constellations devoted to his weakness with the Vorta. Behind him, he hears the distinctive sound of clothing being removed, and he is ashamed by the tendril of heat that coils between his legs at the mental images that surface in his mind.

Mercifully, it’s over quickly. “You can turn around now, Damar,” Weyoun tells him, his voice dripping with amusement. Damar turns, and finds himself amazed: he didn’t think it was possible, but somehow Weyoun managed to inflict his aesthetic blindness onto even a simple Cardassian replicator. The cut of the clothes is inoffensive, but they’re garishly patterned past the point of what the replicator should’ve been technically capable of.

“ _My eyes_ ,” Damar moans. “Are you really going to make me look at that hideous color scheme for an entire morning?”

“Whining doesn’t become you, Damar,” Weyoun admonishes. He runs his hands down the length of his thighs. “Ooh. Very soft."

* * *

They make their way up to the rooftop not long after, and as predicted, it’s entirely deserted. The embassy building itself was a converted military installation from before the war – the insides have been gutted and replaced in their entirety, leaving these rooftops as the last remnants of its previous identity. There are three fighting pits of packed sand arranged on the roof, each outlined by a faded red circle, the same as you could find in a thousand other military facilities throughout Cardassian space, and Damar feels a twinge of nostalgia for his time as a young gorr, bonding and training with his fellow enlisted soldiers. He could almost be convinced he’d been transported back to those camps, if not for the faint, telltale shimmer in the air from the force-field hugging the roof, cocooning the embassy in a protective, _expensive_ , shell that would’ve never been wasted on the average soldier.

Weyoun, despite the intensity of his earlier reaction, obeys Damar spiritedly enough as he directs them into the center of one of the rings, and begins to move them through some basic maneuvers. It’s not long before Damar finds himself sliding back into the old rhythm of these drills. He’s moving purely on muscle memory, and only realizes the danger of that when it’s already too late; he’s slipped behind Weyoun to correct his stance, his hand lifting the Vorta’s forearm, when Weyoun turns his head to the side, angling his face towards Damar, and he suddenly realizes they are _entirely_ too close. He inhales the floral sweetness of his scent, and adrenaline rushes through him at the awareness of his proximity to Weyoun, and all of his senses go on high alert: he can feel the waves of heat radiating off the Vorta, feel the tensed muscle fibers along Weyoun’s back and arm at the places where their bodies connect. And Weyoun’s eyes are as bright as stars, as bright as the memory of his mistakes. He stares at Damar with an unreadable expression, and powerless to stop himself, Damar finds his gaze drawn to the Vorta’s lips. The self-sabotaging, primitive part of his brainstem has begun to override the rational part of his mind, and he wants -. 

He jumps back from Weyoun before his body can betray him, before his mental faculties can be blotted out in a haze of ill-advised, base, emotion. “That’s enough for today,” he says, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Is it?” Weyoun asks, regarding him with a look edged in a dangerous curiosity. He stretches lazily, and flashes a smile that’s just south of innocent. “Perhaps another time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of these days i pinky promise I'm going to let Damar have a good day with zero stress and no difficult conversations....


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring gift-giving and an attempt at reconciliation! 
> 
> (a bit nsfw towards the end)

To Damar’s relief, the introduction of Weyoun to his office went largely unremarked on. Perhaps it had just been the incorrigible cynic in him inventing worst-case scenarios, but he had expected at least half of his staff to resign in protest of having to work alongside a Vorta. But so far, all he’d noticed were some hushed conversations about how their red tea leaf machine better not be imperiled (he was quick to assure them that there was no danger of it being replaced in favor of some Dominion alternative), and a passive aggressive email from his adjunct informing him that their already limited supply of working PADDs would now be stretched even thinner _and_ _if, per their last conversation, he could push along those repair requests through Central Command, that would be great_. Still, Damar tried not to count himself lucky just yet. It was only a few hours into Weyoun’s first day, and that was far too early to be tempting fate. There are any number of things that could still go horribly wrong – an incalculable myriad of possibilities that ranged from statistically unlikely (a malignant subspace alien with a grudge against Vorta inadvertently nuking Damar’s office to settle some ancient vendetta) to statistically probable (an improperly vetted member of his staff, understandably bitter about the Dominion actions on Cardassia, deciding to shank their war-criminal guest with a stylus in the break room). These scenarios (and more) had run wild in Damar’s mind the night before, depriving him sleep, but he vowed to only give himself permission to truly panic if he discovered any anomalous tachyon readings or found anyone surreptitiously sharpening office supplies. 

They’d set aside individual consoles for Weyoun and Ezri; at the moment, Ezri’s was vacant – she’d requested a tour of the sections of Cardassia City that had been slower to recuperate and Damar’s adjunct – standoffish towards him since she’d found out he was giving Weyoun their last working PADD – had volunteered, likely just to get a chance to avoid him. Weyoun had showed up to his work station with a punctuality even a Vulcan would envy, and had immediately begun to pour over aid requests and spreadsheets detailing budgetary projections.

It really does feel like old times, the two of them cordoned away in a dim room, staring at numbers and communiques while the harsh green light of the monitors gradually fries their retinal cells, and as Damar studies him, Weyoun’s face scrunches in the same way it always did when he was concentrating on something he’d rather not. Perhaps aware he’s being watched, Weyoun raises his eyes from his screen to meet Damar’s gaze, offering a mischievous grin as he leans forward to drape himself over his workstation, evidently operating under the misguided assumption that Damar looking at him had been an invitation to engage in small talk.

He’s wearing a new outfit today - one Damar hasn’t had the misfortune of seeing before. The clothes are as ugly and excessively layered as everything else in his wardrobe, but the fabric is a silvery color that Damar hates himself for almost liking. Damar stares at it as Weyoun begins to regale him with some conversation he and Ezri had the night before, faintly mesmerized by the way it reflects the light and mentally puzzling through the odds of the Vorta accidentally stumbling onto a suit that’s marginally less of an eyesore than usual.

“ _Damar_ ,” he hears distantly, and then Weyoun is snapping his fingers to get his attention. “Are you even listening to me?”

Damar glances between Weyoun and the opened spreadsheets on his console, deciding that Weyoun’s company beats out paperwork purgatory, although not by a wide margin. “Sorry,” he mutters. “What were you saying?”

“I was telling you that Dax negotiated the Khitomer Accords,” Weyoun says impatiently. Something in that sentence registers as _off_ to Damar, but he doesn’t have time to determine the reason why before Weyoun continues, “Did you know that, Damar?”

“No,” Damar says shortly, folding his arms over his chest. He’s still perturbed by the amicable relationship that seems to have sprung to life between Ezri and Weyoun, and he hasn’t had time to figure out if he admires Ezri’s ability to put aside past grievances for the sake of cooperation more than he pities her naiveté. “I never cared much about Federation treaties made before I was born.”

Weyoun flashes him a look of exaggerated disappointment. “You need to broaden your horizons, Damar,” he chides. “All warp capable civilizations in the galaxy are inextricably linked. As much as you Cardassians like to imagine yourselves _separate_ and _superior-_ ”

“Fine,” Damar interrupts, because he doesn’t have any interest on being on the receiving end of a hypocritical lecture from Weyoun about the values of interplanetary multi-culturalism, “I’ll do some reading on it when I have free time. Satisfied?”

“Very,” Weyoun purrs, evidently overestimating how much _free time_ Damar actually has. “She has some _fascinating_ stories from that lifetime. Did you know she broke into an Elasian harem? There are no reliable records describing the insides of those harems, since the Elasians have a strict policy of killing any interloper on sight. Such a quaint culture.” He chuckles, and then leans even closer to Damar, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “Dax said the entire compound was filled with misted snakeleaf and there were curtains made entirely of feathers. She said she saw nude men and women dangling on silk ropes from the ceiling, jewels sown into their hair. Can you imagine that?”

Damar shifts uncomfortably, a heat swelling between his legs. Frankly, he’s never seen an Elasian in his life and for all he knows they could be a hideous race of gruesome insectoids, but Weyoun’s descriptions have an exotic allure and the last thing he wants is to have a flagrantly everted cock at work. “Interesting,” he says, making his tone as bland as possible in the hopes that Weyoun will take the hint and steer them towards a safer subject.

Weyoun does not, in fact, take the hint. “The Elasians write love poems on each other’s bodies during their courtship,” he continues, and there is an unusual quality to his voice – an almost imperceptible note of wistfulness staining the typical, faintly condescending tone he normally adopts when discussing alien societies. “Dax said when she took a lover there he spent hours decorating her skin with an Elasian myth about the first marriage.”

“ _Dax_ ,” Damar echoes, finally able to pinpoint exactly what he had found so strange earlier. There had always been something peculiar about how Weyoun chooses to address Ezri, but until this moment he’d been unable to put his finger on it. “Why do you always insist on calling her that?” 

“It’s her name, isn’t it?” Weyoun responds, giving him a look filled with patronizing disappointment, as if Damar is a particularly dense child embarrassing himself with stupid questions.

“Ezri is her name,” Damar argues. “ _Dax_ is the worm in her belly.”

“But she is Dax,” Weyoun says, affecting a meticulously patient tone that he immediately ruins by rolling his eyes. “She isn’t just _Ezri_ anymore. She’s greater than that, she’s added herself to a lineage that stretches over centuries.” He smooths down the oversized lapels of his jacket, and the woven strands of the fabric gleam metallically in the green light, like copper added to a flame. “Not calling her _Dax_ would be like… oh, insisting on calling me _Nine_ instead of Weyoun. Technically accurate, but ultimately… insufficient.”

Lacking any sort of personal experience with being a clone or a Trill host (he supposes there’s always the option of getting assimilated by the Borg, _then_ Weyoun might respect his opinion on the subject of being one individual amongst a larger collective), Damar is reduced to grumbling, “She told me to call her Ezri.”

“Did she?” Weyoun asks distractedly, returning his attention to his workstation – evidently bored of their conversation. “How interesting.”

Damar returns his focus to his own console, scrolling through incomprehensibly boring spreadsheets and idly wondering if it’s possible to turn caffeine into a powder and simply snort it, much like you would crushed rhuludian crystal. He begins to sink into the dark, mundane void of datasets – the sort of hellhole that would put the Klingon Gre’thor to shame – and time splinters and loses all meaning amidst the infinite abyss better known as tabulated statistical analysis. His work is a miniaturized event horizon, a black hole where awareness is stretched into incoherent formlessness and within which neither hope nor light can enter. (He is never more poetic than when he is suffering, which Damar considers a minor tragedy – if he’d been half as expressive romantically as he is for His Most Hated Paperwork, his marriage may have survived a little longer before collapsing into a broken mess of mutual resentment and infidelity.)

Either a few minutes or a few hours later, his mindless trek through funding data is interrupted by the soft ping of an incoming message, and in the corner of his screen the rotating Central Command logo appears, stamped with the encoded frequency of Legate Kell’s office. With a chill of prophetic foreboding, Damar opens it and skims the message. His eyes drift over the words and he feels a sinking sensation in his gut, as if he’s plummeting down the side of a cliff-face towards an outcropping of especially pointy rocks. He curses inarticulately, and Weyoun’s head snaps up, wide violet eyes glowing like quasars in the low light. “What is it?” 

“Come see for yourself,” Damar hisses through gritted teeth, too incensed to provide any detailed explanations. Weyoun glides over to his workstation and hovers besides Damar, reading over the email, his expression impassive. Damar takes the moment of silence to reread it himself – it’s a masochist impulse, like pressing on a bruise, but he is unable to stop himself from committing the execution writ of his project to memory, and an icy dread oozes into his stomach as he realizes he’s going to have to also break the news to Rejal. The missive is brief, and although there is an apology message tacked onto the end of it, it’s so rigidly formal that it’s clear one of Kell’s junior aids plucked it from a template and made only the requisite personalizations.

Weyoun looks up from the message, and frowns slightly. “I’m not sure I understand what this is about. A project was terminated?”

“Not _officially_ terminated,” Damar corrects, feeling his earlier outrage dull to a weary resignation. “But effectively. I was working with the science ministry on a solar-powered orbital array system, but Kell has decided to-” he gestures dejectedly to the message still glaring out at them from his monitor, “- reduce the project’s scope and channel the funding into a ship building venture instead. What’s left of the project is a consolation prize at best – _ceremonial_ , really.”

“If _you_ had taken command after the war,” Weyoun begins, eyes flaring with violet starlight, “You wouldn’t need _anyone’s_ permission for your projects.”

“Enough!” Damar snaps. He’s drained from this set-back, and the last thing he wants to do is compound his exhaustion by engaging with Weyoun in a debate about his career choices. He exhales deeply, and unclenches the fists he hadn’t realized he’d made. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he says once he has regained a measure of control.

Weyoun tilts his head to the side, examining him. “This project,” he starts, “Was it… important to you?” His eyes are sharp and probing, as if trying to determine which emotion it would be appropriate for him to simulate in this situation. He doesn’t seem to find a clear answer on Damar’s face, and he settles on a look of reserved neutrality, his eyes still searching. Damar has had his private suspicions for a long time now that the Founders had encoded this trait, this restless intuition, deep into the genetic structure of their Vorta – instilling them with an insatiable need to adapt and synchronize themselves to the mood of the sentients around them. He has not met enough Vorta to form an appropriate sample size to test this hypothesis, so for all he knows it might just be a quirk unique to Weyoun.

Either way, it has always seemed as if Weyoun finds this sort of social uncertainty to be tantamount to physical discomfort, and Damar decides to take pity on him, admitting, “Yes. It was important to me.”

Weyoun gazes at him, and Damar can almost see the mechanisms work in his brain as he mentally goes through some internal calculation. Finally, a decision seems to be reached, and his eyes clear. “Send me the schematics for the project,” he says. “I’ll add it to the list Kilana will be requesting from the Dominion.”

It is an unexpectedly generous offer, and gratitude flares warmly to life inside Damar’s chest, burning away the cold despair that had settled there in the wake of Kell’s rejection. “It’ll be an undertaking,” he warns him.

Weyoun’s mouth twists into a haughty sneer. “Vorta scientists are quite capable, I assure you. I can’t fathom this will pose a challenge for them.”

In this moment there is something almost endearing in Weyoun’s display of snotty arrogance, and Damar fears that the hot flush of gratitude has somehow infected his brain like a fever. Nevertheless, he can’t quite resist the smile that tugs at his lips. “That is very kind of you, Weyoun.”

He half-expects Weyoun to say something smug and vicious to undercut the moment, but instead an answering smile comes to life on Weyoun’s face and it is like rainclouds parting to reveal the sun. His smile is as brilliant as a solar event, as radiant as the bioluminescent bloom of Risian flowers, and Damar feels his throat tighten and go painfully dry. “My function here is to serve the needs of Cardassia,” Weyoun says. “It is as the Founders ordain. This is… no trouble at all.”

The reminder of the Founders and their inescapable hold over the Vorta sours some of Damar’s good mood, and he returns his focus to his work. They spend the rest of the day together in relative silence, only punctuated by Weyoun asking the occasional clarifying question about some item or report assigned to him. Ezri and his adjunct return towards the end of the day, both of them visibly exhausted from their tour, and Weyoun leaves early to return with Ezri back to the embassy.

“Did you get my email, _sir_?” his adjunct asks, not bothering to conceal her scowl. Her displeasure with him is unsubtle in a way he never would’ve dared personally express when he was Dukat’s adjunct, and he’s not sure how he feels about it. Come to think of it, his entire staff (all hand-picked) are a collection of painfully straight-forward men and women without a functional sycophantic bone between them. He tiredly thinks that they could stand to embrace the age-old Cardassian tradition of sucking-up to the boss _once_ in a while, at least.

“Yes,” he tells her, adding, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m so glad,” she says, her eyes narrowing like she’s imagining drop-kicking him out the nearest window and promoting herself to his position. “Our supply is quickly dwindling. Ianra and Saji have already have to share a PADD. Soon, I might have to do the same. I don’t think you’d want that, _Legate_. My productivity would certainly drop… perhaps quite _precipitously_.”

“Is that a threat?” he asks, doubting that Dukat would ever let himself get put into a position like this.

She smirks, and he thinks in another life she would’ve made an excellent Obsidian Order agent. “We shall see.” 

On that mildly ominous note, Damar returns to his now-vacant office to change out of his armor and into the civilian clothes he’s decided to bring with him to work going forward. He shoves his armor into the frayed duffle bag he’s owned since his first tour of duty (and would’ve replaced long ago if not for lingering sentimentality), and heads out for his apartment. On impulse, he takes a different direction than usual and wanders through the outdoor market that’s sprung up in the bombed-out ruins of Cardassia City’s old courthouse. It’s grown over time from a sad assortment of Cardassian refugees selling their remaining valuables for food into a bustling center for trade, and in the last year or so alien merchants have joined the Cardassian vendors. The acerbic tang of Klingon spices drifts out from one booth, and in another a golden-skinned alien with four arms and too many eyes to count haggles with a customer over a piece of jewelry that flows in their palm like liquid mercury. _Weyoun would like it here_ , he finds himself thinking.

He meanders around the assembled tents, not sure exactly what he’s looking for, and finally his eye catches on one manned by a Vulcan trader. Damar approaches him, and glances around at the displayed items. “Are these all rugs?” he asks.

“Mostly,” the Vulcan says. “Although I also sell a selection of Orion aphrodisiacs.” His countenance is stony, and Damar is unable to determine whether or not that was intended to be a joke. “Are you searching for something specific?”

“I am,” Damar says, stalling as he tries to remember what Weyoun had said he was looking for. “Do you have anything soft or with… interesting textures?”

“ _Interesting textures_ ,” the Vulcan repeats, cocking an eyebrow. “Anything else you’re looking for? Size? Color?”

“Not really,” Damar says, because he’s never witnessed Weyoun ever displaying any sort of preference for one color over another in all the time he’s known him. “Size… I suppose something large enough for a standard living room?”

The Vulcan moves deeper into his tent, reaching to point out one of the many items dangling vertically from the display wheel. “What about this one?” he asks as Damar steps closer to see for himself. The rug is opalescent snakeskin, and would certainly clash quite impressively with everything else in Weyoun’s quarters. “This was harvested from a mature fire serpent. The venom was extracted and used to bleach the epidermis, thus achieving the white color you see.” 

Damar runs his hand down it cautiously. The texture is intriguing – almost pebbly, but with the softness of a lizard’s underbelly. “I’ll take it,” he says.

* * *

He arrives at the embassy not long after, the rug stowed away in his bag. There’s a sense of nervous anticipation that buzzes through him, fueled by the small but inescapable fear that Weyoun will find the gift grotesque and reject it. Damar’s track record with gift giving is rather poor, and in the past he’s limited himself to getting kanar for friends and family – always a foolproof, if boring, option.

He’s on his way to Weyoun’s quarters when one of the shadows in the corridor shifts, and a figure peels itself away from the wall ahead of him. It’s a Romulan - his form lean and his features narrow and sharp, giving him the overall impression of hunger. He stares at Damar with eyes like chips of jet. “Legate Damar,” he calls out.

It doesn’t feel like a question, but Damar stops and forces a wry smile. “The one and only, as far as I know.”

The Romulan indulges him with a cold mimicry of a smile. “What a privilege to meet the hero of Cardassia in the flesh.” He moves forward soundlessly, his eyes as black and eerie as a starless night. “I’ve seen all of the holo-videos you transmitted to your people after your defection,” he confesses. “They were very inspirational.” In his silken voice, the statement sounds more like a threat than a genuine compliment. 

“Thank you,” Damar says, glancing around the Romulan and trying to map out his best strategy for escape. The man has arranged himself in the center of the corridor in front of him, making the prospect of physically side-stepping him a challenge.

“I have to ask,” the Romulan continues, taking another step forward. He’s as tall as he is thin, and this close he looms over Damar. “How is it working with that _Vorta_?” He spits out the name of the species with the same tone of contempt Dukat used to use for the Gul fucking his ex-wife. His voice drops into a low murmur, “I’m sure you’ll be satisfied when this pretense of a Dominion-Cardassian alliance finally dissolves.”

“I try not to make those sorts of predictions about the future,” Damar says, aware he’s begun to tread on dangerous ground. There’s an old phrase that comes to mind: never turn your back on a Breen, never arm-wrestle a Klingon, and _never_ listen to a Romulan. “I have my duty.”

“Of course,” the Romulan purrs. His eyes swallow the light around them, as flat and blank as the void. “You really are everything Kell described: the perfect Cardassian soldier.” His lips twitch with amusement. “It’s been a pleasure, Legate.” He finally steps to the side, allowing Damar to pass him. Damar keeps his gaze trained on the Romulan as he does, for although the chances of getting stabbed by a visiting ambassador are low, they are never nonexistent where Romulans are concerned.

He arrives at Weyoun’s and the Vorta answers the door almost as soon as he presses down on the ringer, causing Damar to startle back and almost lose his footing. When he’s regained his bearings, he muscles past Weyoun, heading inside before anyone can catch him loitering in the hallway and arrive at any spurious conclusions.

“I have a gift for you,” he says gruffly as soon as the door has closed behind him.

“A gift!” Weyoun exclaims, clapping his hands together. His eyes shine with naked glee, and he stares at the duffle bag slung across Damar’s shoulder. “Is it that?”

Damar glances down at the duffle bag and barks out a laugh. “No, don’t worry, Weyoun, I’m not giving you my tattered hand-me-downs.” He moves to the table, pushing aside what look like ribbons inscribed with hieroglyphs, and sets down the bag. Weyoun is gazing at him expectantly, but Damar is no showman – he unzips the bag and unceremoniously pulls out the snakeskin balled up inside, handing it off to Weyoun for his appraisal. “It’s a rug,” he explains as Weyoun turns it over in his hands, his expression wondrous and slightly perplexed. “You said you were looking for one. Does this meet your needs?”

In a single motion Weyoun snaps the rug out, unfurling it in the air, and settles it on the ground. He bends over to straighten out the edges, running his fingers along the raised bumps of the interlinking scales. “Oh yes,” he breathes, “This is perfect.” He stares curiously at Damar, head tilted. “What is it for?”

Damar has done his due diligence by depositing the rug, and there’s a not insignificant part of him that’s contemplating just grabbing his bag and fleeing. He looks to the door for a long moment and then turns back to Weyoun, who’s arranged himself cross-legged on the rug - his palms pressed into it and his eyes glazed with awe, and Damar finds himself suddenly tongue-tied, with the choice to leave a distant impossibility. With a sigh he plops himself on the sofa, grunting as it immediately makes a good-faith effort to absorb him into the depths of its overly-plush cushions. “It’s just a way to say thank you,” he tells him. “Although I’m not sure it compares to an entire orbital array system.”

Weyoun’s hands are now stroking the rug in a way that is borderline sensual, and Damar swallows thickly. “I told you, it was nothing,” Weyoun says, and then snorts a laugh that is undignified by his standards, adding, “But I’m certainly not objecting if this is the end result. This is truly exceptional. Where did you get it?” He smiles. “Don’t tell me you had this hidden away in your quarters back during the war.”

“There’s a market not far from here,” Damar tells him. “This is from one of the off-world merchants – a Vulcan trader.”

“How intriguing,” Weyoun says, his voice growing thoughtful. “You should take me sometime.”

“That didn’t sound like a request,” Damar mutters.

“It’s not a request,” Weyoun agrees. “You’ve been drafted into service. I assure you, it’s a sacrifice for a noble cause.” Mischief glints in his eyes and Damar smiles at him before he can stop himself, his body relaxing against the too-soft back of the sofa. Weyoun cocks his head and says, “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile like that since… well, since Weyoun 6.” His expression goes deliberately blank in a way that has Damar’s hackles immediately rising. “The one you loved.”

Weyoun has always had a flair for the dramatic, bordering on romanticism. It has been one of his more consistently aggravating qualities. “I cared very deeply for Weyoun 6, but I didn’t love him,” Damar states coolly. “I wish I had. But there wasn’t quite enough time to fall in love, before he defected and I helped _you_ kill him.” Anger trembles through him, thrumming in his blood to the rapidly increasing drumbeat of his heart and he feels a desperate urge to be cruel, to distract from this horrible admission he’s never spoken out loud before. “He may have been defective, but as far as I’m concerned all of you _perfect_ clones are the inferior copies.”

Weyoun unfolds himself from his position on the ground and stands, glaring down at Damar. “You made your choice with Weyoun 6, _Damar_. I think you’d agree this display of self-pity is a touch misplaced, considering….” He trails off and his lips widen into a predatory smile that is all teeth. “You have been sexually involved with three of my predecessors,” Weyoun 9 says calmly, his eyes now twinkling with a baleful curiosity, as cold as the distant pinpricks of stars. “Tell me, Damar, what is it about this form you seem to find so irresistible? It must be something rather compelling to distract you from our apparently fundamental _inferiority_.”

Truthfully, Damar has been expecting a question like this to come sooner or later, in one form or another. It is almost their tradition at this point: Weyoun 7 had taunted him for his love affair with Weyoun 6, and Weyoun 8 had taken a spiteful pleasure in mocking him for both. Still, he is not prepared for this question. He never is. Shame scorches down the length of his neck ridges and he finds he has to resist the childish impulse to avert his gaze from the Vorta. He scowls up at him instead, wishing in vain for the strength to simply stalk out of the room entirely and deny Weyoun the satisfaction of a response. This is all part of Weyoun’s game – any move Damar makes is simply playing into his hands. As always, Weyoun is the only one who has any power here – Damar doesn’t even know the _rules,_ let alone how to properly play. He _should_ leave - but he has never possessed the strength to do so before, and now is no exception. His thoughts churn sickly as he struggles to come up with an answer for Weyoun – an _excuse_ – and he realizes he does not know – he has never known what has drawn him to Weyoun time and time again, beyond a toxic combination of self-hatred and a desire to punish himself. He has tried to pretend, on occasion, that his relations with Weyoun 6’s successors were only out of a lingering affection for the defective clone, a need to recapture some shadow of his essence, his memory, but in truth Damar’s attraction to Weyoun had begun with his fifth iteration. It was something in his eyes perhaps – always so guarded and shrewd, glittering in a way that was enthrallingly unknowable. Damar has always been drawn to mysteries, has always taken a secret thrill in discovering the solution to a particularly stubborn puzzle. Despite his rank, he’s always been an engineer at heart – an unfortunately feminine affectation, but not one he has ever been successful at fully repressing. Weyoun has always defied his understanding so compellingly. And it doesn’t hurt that the Vorta possesses a pale, smoothly exotic prettiness and eyes that glow with a spectral brilliance.

There is a temptation – faint, but growing stronger with each passing second – to divulge all of this to Weyoun, to unburden himself, _finally_ , of his secret shame. He considers just letting his mouth open, letting the words tumble out into the air between them. It would be easier, it would be a relief - it would be akin to holy confession. But he looks back to Weyoun, sees the Vorta’s lips curved in an insincere smile, and whatever fledgling vulnerability had possessed him abruptly crumbles and disintegrates. He swallows back the truth and says instead, “Before you go painting me as some kind of whore, Weyoun, recall that the reverse could be said as well.” He attempts a smirk. “Three of your line have been intimate with me – why do you think _that_ is?”

Unsurprisingly, Weyoun ignores Damar’s question entirely. His eyebrows rise as he mouths the word _whore_ as if he’s never heard it spoken out loud before. He smiles. “Interesting choice of words. I've always admired that about you, Damar. You’ve never shied away from crudeness if you felt it communicated your point more effectively.”

Damar finds himself suddenly incapable of playing the Vorta’s game any longer. The traded barbs, the cutting insults – it has gone far beyond the belligerent flirtation his people enjoy. “You are a hateful creature,” he tells him coldly. Weyoun blinks at this, taken aback, and emboldened, Damar continues viciously, “Do you enjoy this? Does it please you, to point out my weakness? Because _that_ is your answer, Vorta. It was the weakness of a lonely, pathetic man seeking solace however he could. Nothing more.”

The words find their target and strike true: Weyoun’s eyes dim, and he takes a half-step back, a dozen emotions cycling rapidly across his face as if he cannot decide how to feel. Finally, he settles on an expression of pinched dismay. “Is that really what you feel?”

Damar stares at him for a long moment, watching as the Vorta’s pale features twist further with distress. The emotion might be genuine, for all he knows, but the expression of it is almost certainly a deliberate choice. Still, his words – his weapons - have left him and taken his anger along with them, and Damar finds he is only left with a hollow exhaustion. He is very tired, and he cannot find it within himself to take any further pleasure in hurting Weyoun. “No,” he admits. “That’s not what I feel. I don’t know what I feel.” He shakes his head. “You hold all the answers here, Weyoun, just like always. I can’t even guess at them. And you - I don’t even know-.” He bites off the sentence, feeling a resurgence of frustration. He grimaces and then tries again, “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Why did you choose to come here? You hated Cardassia – you resented every moment you were stuck on this planet.”

Weyoun approaches tentatively, one careful step at a time, until he is near enough that the heat from his body bleeds into the air between them. “I thought you were dead,” he says after a pause. He hesitates before he continues, as if gathering his thoughts. “Weyoun 8’s last moments were of the exiled assassin telling us you had died. When I was activated, that memory was the first in my mind.”

“You signed off on my death warrant,” Damar reminds him. “You expect me to believe you had some change of heart while you were dormant in your cloning pod?”

“I did order your death,” Weyoun agrees. “But death is… not the same for Vorta. It is not always the end. When I was told you died… there was something very permanent in that. Whatever else I have felt, I did not – I do not – relish the thought of a universe without you.” His hand reaches out as if on impulse, hovering over Damar’s, and Weyoun stares down at the appendage as if it does not belong to him.

Before this week, it had been three years since Damar had seen Weyoun, and there had been times – not _common_ , but less rare than he’d ever admit – that he had found himself almost missing the Vorta. Damar does not – _cannot -_ forget the injustices Weyoun carried out under the Founder’s orders, he does not forget the needling humiliations he endured under the Dominion’s heel, and he certainly has not forgotten Weyoun’s troubling and persistent penchant for cruelty. But Weyoun is gazing at him with a look of imploring need, and in the end, Damar is just a man. Before he has time to second-guess himself, he reaches up to take Weyoun’s hand – still dangling midair like an offering – and with a tenderness he had forgotten the Vorta could inspire, he gently interlaces their fingers together. With his hand gathered around Weyoun’s, he guides the Vorta’s hand to his chest, slightly leftwards of his sternum, and presses it against the thin fabric. He feels his reconstructed heart race under their interlinked hands, beating hard and fast with a flurry of tumultuous emotions.

“I live,” he says, as softly as he knows how.

Weyoun’s hand trembles in his and his face spasms as if in acute anguish. The Vorta leans down towards him, all but falling into his lap, and before conscious thought can catch up to instincts their lips are colliding with the destructive inevitability of gravity. It’s just physics - Damar feels himself drawn to Weyoun like a comet dragged into the orbit of a devouring sun. Weyoun is an inferno - his body blazes with heat as they fall into a rhythm together, their movements synchronizing with an old familiarity, and Damar slips his tongue past Weyoun’s lips and into his mouth. Weyoun’s gasp is swallowed by the kiss, and the Vorta’s hands move to Damar’s shoulders, gripping onto them with a painful tightness, as if he is trying to anchor himself to Damar. Damar’s legs spread to accommodate Weyoun’s weight upon him, and his hands trail hungrily along the familiar curves of the Vorta’s warm form. His mind is a confusion of chemical impulses and bursts of inarticulate lust, but an ugly thought materializes – muddled and imprecise amidst the crush of physical sensation – and he finds himself wondering if this endless, cyclical dance with the Vorta is his punishment for not protecting Weyoun 6, for condemning him to death. He has too much innocent blood on his hands: Tora Ziyal’s, Weyoun 6’s, and so many nameless others – lives taken during all his years serving a series of despotic and uncaring masters. He squeezes Weyoun’s hips and deepens the kiss, drinking in the taste of him, the sweetness of his scent. They have been each other’s victims and killers, and although he doubts there is any redemption to be found here, in this act, he cannot help but search for some measure of it in the heat of the Vorta’s supple mouth.

Damar’s ribs burn with a distant memory of smoldering flesh, and the echo of his almost-death rings though his body to the violent pound of his heart in his chest. “What do you want?” he pants out, pulling back and cupping Weyoun’s cheek. The Vorta whimpers a protest at the loss of contact, and the sound is almost enough to shatter Damar’s resolve, but he summons the last of his rapidly vanishing willpower and resists the temptation to bridge the gap between them and reclaim Weyoun’s mouth with his. Instead, he presses a thumb to Weyoun’s bottom lip, marveling at the softness of his skin. “Tell me what you want,” he begs again, and his voice sounds almost petitionary to his ears.

Weyoun squirms on top of him, grinding down on his crotch in a way that is almost certainly not accidental, and gazes at him from under heavy-lidded eyes. He is still almost preternaturally composed compared to Damar, but there are little seams that have begun to crack along the edges of his collected expression. He examines Damar for a heartbeat that stretches into an eternity, and then his tongue flicks out to Damar’s offered thumb, and with a tantalizing slowness he brings it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks on it. Damar shudders, and his free hand digs into the Vorta’s waist with a pressure he knows from past experience will leave behind the violet shadows of bruises.

Weyoun releases Damar’s thumb from his mouth with a lewd, wet noise that sends an urgent spike of heat directly to Damar’s cock. “I want you inside of me,” Weyoun murmurs, and in this instant the words seem to be imbued with the promise of absolution. Whatever remaining willpower Damar might’ve had unravels in its entirety and in a fluid motion he stands, lifting up Weyoun with him and carrying him to his bedroom, anxious to obey the Vorta’s command. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will there be more explicit sex scenes that don't just fade to black in this work? almost definitely. will I have to change the rating to accommodate this? quite possibly!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was, ironically, supposed to be on the shorter side, but then it ended up becoming my longest one so far lmaooo
> 
> i'm going to take a brief break from this story to finish up the last one-shot of my earlier Dayoun series, but i hope to have the next chapter up in two or three weeks! and this one was so much fun to write, i really hope ya'll enjoy :)
> 
> heads up for a little NSFW sexiness, brief mention of sexual assault, and vomit

Damar wakes slowly, incrementally. It’s an unhurried process as his mind languidly sifts reality from dreams and consciousness returns to him in loose fragments: he feels the weight and texture of unfamiliar blankets draped over his body, a cool breeze nipping into the exposed skin of his neck and face, and then finally, the distant awareness of an occupied space to his right, as warm as a furnace. Sleepily, he rotates himself closer to the source of the heat, nuzzling absently into smooth, naked flesh. From the space – _from the body_ \- comes a low chuckle. 

Realization crashes upon him like a tsunami, leaving him dazed and floundering in its wake as memories from the night before surge back: holding Weyoun’s hips steady as he fucked into Vorta, the tight, overwhelming heat as Weyoun’s body had clenched and pulsated around his cock, and Damar – himself now spent – spreading Weyoun’s legs and lowering his head to his crotch, wrapping his lips around the Vorta’s cock until Weyoun was a writhing mess, bucking and thrusting into his throat. 

His eyes shoot open, and he finds two shining, violet orbs gazing unblinkingly at him - Weyoun’s face pressed close enough to his that their noses almost touch. He startles with an aborted shout, choking on his spit and recoiling, accidentally entangling himself further into Weyoun’s bedsheets. “Don’t _stare_ ,” he sputters out as he works to yank his arms and legs free from their makeshift prison of blankets. “It’s creepy.”

Weyoun gasps theatrically. “ _Creepy?_ ” He pouts, and in a fluid motion that seems entirely too effortless for so early in the morning, he props himself up and snakes his leg across Damar’s torso, effectively straddling him. “I was thinking about your face,” he says, in a blandly affable tone: the sort of voice someone else might use to discuss purchasing furniture. “Tell me, Damar, do most people find it aesthetically appealing?” His expression scrunches and he waves his hand around to indicate Damar’s face (as if Damar is in a habit of forgetting where it is), appraising him with a detached curiosity.

“Oh, that’s flattering,” Damar grumbles, unnerved by the Vorta’s laser-focused scrutiny. “Just what I wanted to hear this morning.” With a grunt, he pushes Weyoun off of him enough to reposition himself into a sitting position, and lets his head drop into his hands. He kneads at his temples, trying to stave off the incoming migraine, frustrated with himself for _once again_ falling into the Vorta’s bed. He can _smell_ Weyoun’s scent on him, clinging to his skin like a perfume, and he resents himself for not being appropriately repulsed by this, hates how his cock has already begun to stir at the Vorta’s nearness. How had he handled these situations before? He’d usually made a concerted effort to get as much proximity between himself and Weyoun after any… altercations of this nature, but there had been times where Weyoun had taken a perverse delight in foiling those plans. He racks his brain, trying to remember the last time he’d unwillingly woken up next to the Vorta. If he recalls correctly, he _thinks_ he’d been able to escape to his quarters (and indulge in a scalding hot shower) before Weyoun had come to, but sadly it’s already too late for that option. He bemoans that his life has become a never-ending parade of Weyoun’s, one after the other: he has known five of their line now, and _four_ of those he has known sexually.

A light touch against his neck ridges shatters his reverie, and he shivers as careful, inquisitive fingers trail up to the nape of his neck and begin to run through his hair, playing with the loose strands. “I wasn’t trying to insult you, Damar,” Weyoun coos, his voice saturated with enough sugary insincerity that it’s almost menacing. His hand fists into Damar’s hair, twisting gently but insistently until Damar is forced to tilt his head back to meet the Vorta’s gaze. He swallows, entirely too cognizant that his cock has gone from _mildly erect_ to _rock hard_ in the span of about two seconds. Unable to stop himself, Damar’s eyes wander over Weyoun’s body, lingering on the bruises scattered along his waist and thighs. There is a beam of sunshine flooding in from the narrow window above the bed, and Weyoun shifts fractionally, just enough to cast himself in its light. It spills over him, highlighting the violet bruises pressed into his flesh and turning his eyes gemstone bright. Damar’s heart stumbles over its next beat, and a buried part of his mind debates the merits of abandoning any pretense of resisting his attraction to the Vorta. It would be _easier_ …. But then Weyoun is tugging on his hair again, hard enough to make him wince, and that thought shrivels and dies before it has time to fully bloom.

He shakes his head, trying to jerk Weyoun’s hand loose, and while he’s successful the motion is sudden enough that Weyoun ends up taking a few strands of Damar’s hair along with him. “ _Damar_ ,” Weyoun whines. “Don’t be petulant. I’m just trying to understand.”

“It’s subjective,” Damar snaps. “Some people find me attractive, some people don’t.”

“Surely there is something quantifiable you can point to,” Weyoun says, reaching out to trace over the scaled ridges framing his jaw. “I have always been under the impression most species have definable standards of beauty, although I have not studied them extensively.”

The last person who praised his looks with any degree of effusiveness was the commanding officer he had been assigned to prior to being transferred to Dukat’s service and those – those are not memories he enjoys reflecting upon. There is a weak, pathetic part of him that thinks he would like to hear Weyoun call him handsome, or pretty – replacing the old, tainted, memories with more pleasant ones, and perhaps scrub away some of the negative associations that have formed with those words. “I don’t know what to tell you,” Damar says at last. He does not intend to, but his hand – evidently possessed of a mind of its own – sweeps up the curve of Weyoun’s ear, coming to rest in the coiled hair that’s currently burnished with sun-lit gold. “It’s not always… logical. You either like what you see, or you don’t.”

“And you like what you see?” Weyoun purrs. It is barely a question. 

“Yes,” Damar admits gruffly, removing his hand. “Obviously. But that’s not a new phenomenon.”

Perhaps it is a trick of light softening the Vorta’s expression, but Weyoun’s smirk seems to lose some of its edged sharpness, and the skin around his eyes crinkles in a display of emotion that is nearly tender. “I enjoy looking at you,” he muses. “I am not sure why. It would be easier if I could classify it neatly by aesthetic metrics!” It’s possibly the most sincere compliment Weyoun has ever given him, and Damar mentally starts a countdown until the Vorta does something to undercut the moment. He doesn’t have to wait long. Weyoun’s smirk broadens into a leer, and he gestures dismissively towards his lower half. “Use your mouth again, Damar,” he says, adopting an imperious tone that Damar vividly remembers him using to order around Jem’Hadar during the war.

It’s a halfway tempting suggestion, and Damar’s cock gives an interested twitch at the thought, but he barks out a quick laugh. “The office is waiting,” he reminds the Vorta, relishing the opportunity to be the one to lecture _Weyoun_ on the merits of work ethic for a change.

Disappointment washes over Weyoun’s features and then disappears almost in the same instant. He pulls himself away from Damar, scooting to the side of the bed, and gives him an unreadable look. “Perhaps later.”

 _Definitely not_ Damar fully intends to tell him. But when he opens his mouth, the only words that come out are, “Maybe so.”

“Damar,” Weyoun calls out to him as he heads to the shower. With a groan, he turns back to face the Vorta, and finds Weyoun staring blatantly at his body, his eyes wandering over the planes of his chest and shoulders with an intensity that is only a few shades removed from overtly lecherous. What Weyoun seems to discover in his search is beyond Damar’s capacity to guess at, but whatever it is makes the Vorta smile in a way sends an electric current racing down his spine, crackling along his skin as if he’s just shoved his hand into a faulty power coupler. “If you so desired, I think it would be appealing to see you drawn with ink, like in the Elasian customs. I could paint you with a story in my people’s language.”

“What kind of story? Does it feature one of the Dominion’s many conquests?” Damar asks sarcastically.

Weyoun’s eyes narrow minutely, but he smooths away his displeasure in favor of a blithe smile, evidently deciding to pretend Damar’s idea was genuine. “That was indeed my first idea,” he says, humming thoughtfully. “You know me so well. But I could be… amenable to other suggestions.”

Damar laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but the thought of having to scrub ink off his skin and out of his scales, having it run in watery rivets down his legs as it permanently stains his bathroom, sounds arduous to the point of hilarity. “I don’t think I could pull it off,” he says. “Besides,” he adds, at the wounded expression Weyoun shoots his way, “I think you would make a superior canvass.” And that, at least, is the truth – for in his time as a soldier he has seen the wakes of spectral ripples blossom amidst swirling nebulas and he has seen vaporized crystal glittering in the rose-tinted moonlight of an ocean world, but he does not imagine there could be many lovelier sights than Weyoun’s pale skin decorated with the hieroglyphs of ancient Kardasi poems. The thought finishes forming and then coagulates in brain, setting the mental image firmly into his mind’s eye, and Damar blanches and angrily chides himself for conjuring up such absurd notions.

* * *

He shuffles out of Weyoun’s apartment not long after, the Vorta right on his heels. He sweeps his gaze around the hallway, paranoid about being spotted with the Vorta so early in the morning, already dreading the consequent fallout from the rumors that would follow such a discovery. Perhaps they should stagger their departure from the embassy – if he could convince Weyoun to wait a while to leave -. The plan is barely in the embryonic stages of development when Damar hears the hushed electronic exhale of a door opening, and then Ezri is walking out into the corridor as well. She notices them almost immediately, and she halts awkwardly, her hand stilling mid-way through an attempt to straighten the blue collar of her uniform. 

Her hand drops to her side, and she glances between him and Weyoun, a knowing expression almost immediately crossing her face. She reveals less shock than Damar might’ve expected – only the bare minimum, in fact – and she angles her head towards Weyoun. Some primitive understanding seems to travel almost telepathically between the two of them, and Damar can only guess what Weyoun has already divulged to her about their history together. Just when Damar thinks his humiliation is complete, she looks back to him and her eyes light up. “Damar!” she exclaims. “Your _hair_. It’s so _loose_. I’ve never seen a Cardassian male like this before.” She grins, acting as though she hasn’t just verbally eviscerated his pride. Her mouth opens to speak again, and Damar braces himself for her next words, which he predicts will surely piss all over the now mangled corpse of his Cardassian dignity. “I’d started to half-suspect you all just glued it down to your scalps.” 

Damar pats at his hair self-consciously and scowls. He’d done his best to slick it back into its usual style, but without gel and his wide-toothed comb there had only so been much he could do for it. He’d seen himself in the mirror before he left, and he’d been ashamed of the slovenly reflection that had greeted him. “Don’t look at me,” he demands sourly.

Ezri tries to stifle a laugh, but is unsuccessful – it chimes out loudly and reverberates in the hallway, a veritable auditory beacon advertising Damar’s dishevelment. “You look nice,” she says, biting her lip in what he can only presume is an attempt to reign in further outbursts of mirth. At Damar’s skeptical expression she adds, “I promise!” She pauses, considering. “Of course, if it’s really an issue, I do have some hair-gel lying around. You’re welcome to it.”

“You’ve made a friend for life,” Damar tells her gravely.

Ezri giggles, and presses her hand behind her to open her apartment door, ushering him through. Weyoun flits between the two of them before Damar can head inside, moving as whisper-softly as a wraith. “ _Dax_ ,” he starts, in that oily, wheedling voice he’s always seemed to favor for diplomatic endeavors. The sound of it brings back far too many memories of Weyoun attempting to charm Sisko and Dukat, and Damar almost gags. “Think carefully about what this means. A _Legate_ in your debt is no small thing. Do you have any enemies? Any… small worlds or medium sized moons you’d like to see erased from the celestial plane?”

“Hm,” Ezri says, pantomiming thoughtfulness. “ _Possibly.”_ She taps a finger against her chin in mock contemplation. “There’s a few places I could think of…. Damar, how fast do you think you could mobilize a fleet to Argelius II? Curzon got the _worst_ drinks there; I still can’t stomach a tequila sunrise….” 

“Ha ha,” Damar grunts. “Both of you are hilarious. But right now, the only place I’m considering ordering an orbital strike on is this embassy.”

Ezri and Weyoun both gasp dramatically in tandem. “You’d take yourself out along with us!” Ezri cries. (“Damar, this troubling lack of self-preservation is unbefitting a man of your rank,” Weyoun adds at the same instant.) 

“It would be worth it,” Damar says dryly. “And the temptation is growing by the second. Ezri….” 

She relents far swifter than Weyoun ever would, but the echo of laughter still dances in her eyes. “If you insist. Bathroom is the door to the left – you should see it right away, it’ll be the red bottle on the counter.”

When he’s more presentable he accompanies Weyoun and Ezri out of the embassy to the office, feeling marginally confident that her presence should act as buffer to forestall any gossip about him and the Vorta. (He chooses not to reflect on the other possibility – that people may look at the three of them together and assume he’s taken his duties of _liaising with alien allies_ a bit too literally.)

* * *

The first half of the day trudges along about as gracelessly as Damar could’ve expected. Another PADD breaks down – his adjunct is bristling with barely restrained mutinous impulses when she delivers the news – and Damar gets word that their latest shipment of duranium ore was hijacked by Ferengi pirates, creating yet another setback to Lakarian City’s rebuilding initiative. Damar is also beginning to realize that Ezri’s presence is both a blessing and curse – while he himself is spared from having to single-handedly deal with the brunt of Weyoun’s endless need to make conversation, Ezri herself is nearly as bad as the Vorta, and the back-and-forth of their chatter eventually becomes a constant background noise. He catches snippets of their discussion every so often – Ezri’s recollection of a crude joke told to her during her time as Curzon (“It’s much more humorous in the original Klingon!”) and Weyoun describing scattered workplace conversation he’d overheard with those genetically engineered ears of his (“ _Apparently_ , Saji and Ajic recently ended a romantic tryst – now he’s convinced she’s tampered with the tea machine to malfunction every time he tries to use it…”) Damar finds himself missing his kanar, missing the way a glass of it could carve out a brief reprieve amidst any circumstance and fill him with a reliable – if artificially induced – warmth. 

He hears Weyoun calling over, his pitch more raised than usual, and he’s already working to tune him out when he belatedly realizes Weyoun has addressed him by name. “What?” he asks grouchily. He swears to himself that if Weyoun attempts to solicit his opinion on some scrap of office gossip, he’ll move his workstation to the restroom and install bio-metric locks against any non-Cardassian entry. Money and practicality would be no object – he’d be prepared to reorganize his annual budget in whatever way is necessary, and he’d be willing to incur his adjunct’s wrath in the process. _Whatever it takes_. Victory is sacrifice.

But when he looks to Weyoun, he finds that the Vorta’s eyes are fixed on his monitor, his brow creased in a troubled expression that Damar has rarely seen him wear. The sight of it is alarming enough that the sarcastic quip he was readying dies on his lips before it can be voiced, and he silently heads to Weyoun’s console. In the corner of his eye, he spies Ezri’s fingers stall over their typing as she squints down at her own monitor in faux-concentration, diligently pretending she isn’t paying rapt attention to them. He does not blame her for her curiosity, and he also knows that if Weyoun wanted privacy he wouldn’t be shy about asking for it.

“What is it?” he asks him.

Weyoun’s frown deepens, and instead of immediately responding he tugs on the sleeve of Damar’s uniform, pulling him in front of the screen. “Do you see that?”

Weyoun’s is hovering distractingly close – near enough that Damar can feel the excess heat bleeding off his body. He inhales a quick, steadying breath and focuses on the monitor. Rows of numbers squirm in circular rotations around screen, surrounding a pair of similar-looking datasets. “What am I looking for?” he asks.

Weyoun’s worried expression breaks just enough for him to roll his eyes, and Damar finds himself somewhat relieved that whatever is concerning him isn’t severe enough to make him forget how to be an asshole – for _that_ would be a truly frightening situation. “I’ve had to sort through a rather significant backlog of previous aid requests made by various organizations on Cardassia,” he explains. “As it obviously wouldn’t have been in anyone’s interests for the Dominion to answer requests that were already filled, I’ve had the computer keep track of all proposals that were approved and subsequently added to the budget.” He pauses, and a small, lopsided smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glitter with an unapologetic cunning, the kind that normally makes Damar’s blood run cold. This time however, Damar can’t muster up much besides an impatience for the Vorta to get on with it. He glowers, which does little to motivate Weyoun to continue – instead, the Vorta stares back at him in amusement. Weyoun stifles a giggle, and then continues more somberly, “I was, ah… playing around with some of the financial information. Nothing outside my purview or clearance,” he hastily adds, “I was merely… curious. But I am beginning to note some discrepancies between the budgetary proposals and the actual amounts that were spent on contractors and supplies. In almost every circumstance, the costs were below even the most conservative initial estimates.”

“What are you implying?” Damar demands. “That someone is embezzling funds? Siphoning aid money?”

“Well _yes_ ,” Weyoun says, blinking at him. “I thought that was obvious. Would you like me to spell out these things _directly_ for you in the future, or do you think you’re capable of comprehending basic _subtlety_ after all?” 

Damar ignores the insult, choosing instead to trace his finger along the screen, flicking through the two comparison groups. “I’d need to double-check your math,” he says at last.

Weyoun inclines his head. “Of course,” he murmurs, his voice coated with a thin veneer of practiced deference. “But I’m certain you’ll find my conclusions to be accurate.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Ezri interrupts, forgoing her poorly-acted pretense of ignoring their conversation. She hops away from her monitor and bounces forward before Damar can respond. She joins them at Weyoun’s console, coming to rest beside Damar’s other elbow and bends forward to translate the numerical output with her tricorder. “Damar, when was the last time you explored the construction zones?”

“I’m not sure,” Damar admits. He’s suddenly uncomfortable: by the question, but also by the claustrophobic proximity of both Weyoun and Ezri sandwiching him on either side. He pulls back from the console, and watches with muted fascination as both of them immediately swarm into the newly available space like molecules seeking osmosis. “Is that relevant?”

Ezri taps at her tricorder for a second longer, and then straightens, turning back to Damar. She bows her head as if unwilling to meet his gaze. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “I wouldn’t have said anything if Weyoun didn’t… broach the subject first. After your adjunct was kind enough to give me a tour of the reconstruction areas, I started to do a little research last night.” She finally raises her face up to make eye contact, and waves her hands, almost knocking Weyoun with her tricorder. “This is _very_ preliminary, and I could _absolutely_ be reading into the situation but… almost all of the areas that have been rebuilt were done within the first two years after the war. In the last year, almost no large-scale construction has been completed. Development has largely… stalled… at least in Cardassia City. I haven’t had time to look deeper into how other areas are faring.”

Weyoun, evidently pleased with Ezri’s supporting evidence, shoots her a bright grin that is jarringly out-of-place for the seriousness of the situation. He twists his head to look at Damar, and it is almost disturbing how quickly he composes his features into a marginally more solemn expression. “Do you have any theories, Damar?” he asks, his voice dropping into that smoothly dangerous tone he uses whenever he’s asking a trick question – cold steel wrapped in velvet.

“Don’t you?” Damar rebukes sharply. “Go ahead – spit it out.”

Weyoun seems entertained by his deduction, and he clasps his hands together, his shoulders rising and falling with a contraction of silent laughter. “Of _course_ I do,” he says glibly. “But I want to watch you figure it out first.” His lip curls, and he coaxes, “Put that Cardassian intellect of yours to good use.”

Ezri steps between them and stretches out a hand as if to place it on his chest, before thinking better of it. “Damar,” she starts quietly. Her eyes are the same color his son’s had been - as blue as a cloudless sky, as blue as a corpse’s lips. He stares down at her, at her soft face framed by her slicked-back dark hair – such an overt affectation of Cardassian masculinity, and once again looks at her and sees a chaos of contrasts. “We don’t have to have this conversation now.”

“We do,” he says slowly, because he refuses to allow Weyoun the satisfaction of victory over him. He finds that the answer has already formed in his throat, and it sits there heavily, waiting to be vocalized. He is reluctant to speak it aloud – as if by fashioning his thoughts into words he will be making this real – summoning it from his unconsciousness and cementing it into existence. “ _If-”_ he stresses the word, “all of what you say is correct, than this was done by someone with a higher authority than mine. And there is only one individual in Cardassia who ranks higher than a Legate.” He lets the rest of the implication dangle unfinished in the air between them, but the accusation is as good as made. Ezri’s face shadows with distress, and Weyoun smiles proudly at him - he has evidently passed the Vorta’s little test, although this knowledge is at best a cold comfort, and does little to offset the weight of their discovery. He shakes his head. “I’ll talk to Kell,” he says. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this. And you both need to triple-check your findings.”

Disapproval slithers across Weyoun’s features, and the Vorta crosses his arms over his chest, his mouth opening and then abruptly closing. Just as well – Damar is in no mood for a lecture or, even worse, condescending advice on how to navigate this situation. Ezri’s expression is filled with sympathy, and she attempts a reassuring smile. “Whatever you need,” she tells him. She is a kind woman, he thinks, and her sentiment – while not entirely helpful – is still appreciated. Colonel Kira should be commended on finding such a wife for herself. 

“What I need,” Damar decides grimly, “Is a _break_. Let’s grab some kanar and get, as I once heard a human say, _fucking hammered_.”

Ezri’s lips quirk into a smile. “I’ve also heard this expression,” she says, nodding sagely. “And I accept your proposal. My place, in three hours?” Damar agrees, and without waiting for permission to invite him, she turns to Weyoun. “Are you interested in joining us?”

Weyoun glances at her, and then looks back to stare at Damar for a long moment. His features are an unreadable mask – although Damar can wager a guess at the nature of his thoughts. Weyoun has always been, at best, mildly contemptuous of drinking – and specifically, Damar’s drinking. Damar is expecting a refusal, and a smug denouncement of this wasteful revelry, and he is surprised when Weyoun merely dips his head in polite acquiescence. “I’ll be there.”

* * *

Damar shows up to Ezri’s quarters exactly three hours later, for nothing motivates his punctuality more than the promise of company and inebriation. She greets him wearing a sparkly dress that glitters like a diamond under the sun, exuding radiance by way of some mechanism of internal luminosity. The mystery of it fascinates him.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he compliments, gesturing at the dress. “It’s striking.”

She grins and spins around, the skirt twirling with an iridescent ripple of color, haloing her in a rainbow glow. “Nerys bought it for me,” she tells him. “Back when we were first getting together.” She smiles fondly at the memory. “She was so flustered – she wanted to impress me.”

“It must’ve worked,” Damar says.

She steps back and he follows her inside. “Oh yes,” she confesses as the door shuts behind them. “It was so thoughtful I kissed her right on the spot.” She laughs. “I think I rather startled her.” 

She looks expectantly at him, and Damar pulls out the bottle of kanar cradled under his arm, offering it to her. It’s a middling vintage, and certainly not anything that would be impressive to an alien, but she does an adequate job of examining it and feigning interest. “I’m looking forward to trying it!” she exclaims brightly, settling it carefully on the table behind her. “I’ll grab some glasses.” She starts to head into her kitchen, and then turns, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips. “I have something else too.”

She returns from the kitchen a few moments late, depositing a stack of glasses on the table as well as a metallic, rectangular device with a slim tube sticking out from the top. “Snakeleaf,” she tells him, pointing to it. “It’s an Orion drug – although not nearly as potent as most of the others from their world. I’ve always found the effects quite pleasant.”

The chimer sounds, and Ezri darts over to open the door, welcoming Weyoun inside with an exuberance Damar privately considers to be rather unwarranted.

He ends up pouring out two glasses of kanar (Weyoun declines a drink for himself) as Ezri has the apartment computer play an album of Tellarite songs. He’s not sure he likes it – the tempo keeps changing and there’s a discordant quality between the various instruments and the scratchy chanting of the singer. He’ll have to remember to recommend some Cardassian music to her – from what he’s gathered she’s spent most of her last three lifetimes listening primarily to Klingon opera, which Damar considers to be a minor tragedy. She deserves to be introduced to _actual_ music – perhaps something from the First Republic – although if she enjoys this Tellarite garbage the bar is probably set low enough that she’d likely be impressed by anything with a tune. 

Ezri accepts the kanar, and takes a delicate sip. She holds it in her mouth for a second before swallowing, which Damar, personally, would’ve advised against. “It’s interesting,” she decides. “I don’t remember the last time I had kanar. Maybe as Jadzia?” Her lips purse into a puzzled frown, and then she shrugs, plopping herself onto the end of her atrocity of a sofa. Damar joins her after a beat, deciding that the more they cover it up with their bodies, the less of it they have to see. The color glares up at him – as orange as an outgrowth of poisonous fungi – and he looks away before it has a chance to do permanent damage to his vision. Ezri stretches out to grab the snakeleaf contraption she’d shown Damar earlier, lifting the glass stem to her mouth.

“What is that?” Weyoun asks curiously, sitting down between them and watching closely as Ezri inhales deeply, and then passes the device to Damar. She lets out the vapor in a slow, controlled exhale, releasing a cloud of opalescent mist to swirl in the space before her.

“Snakeleaf,” Ezri explains. She starts detailing its psychoactive properties, and Damar tunes them out, taking a long pull of his own from the stem. It tastes of faintly burnt plant matter – not an especially strong or particularly offensive odor – and he breathes out, releasing the vapor into the air. The effects come almost immediately – he hears himself laugh as the cloud slowly disperses, and a rush of heat flows down the length of his body. The music warbles around him, distorting ever-so-slightly – lengthening the sound of the drumbeats and warping the Tellarite chanting. He blinks languidly, relaxing as the sofa envelopes him in a warm embrace. Beside him, Ezri’s dress twinkles on the outskirts of his vision, seeming to take on a life of its own – it wraps around her skin like a parasitic, crystalline organism, and moves sinuously with her body as she gestures expansively to Weyoun. 

He shakes his head and licks absently at his lips, captivated by the rough, tickling sensation of his tongue against them. He blinks again, and Ezri is grinning at him, her teeth blindingly white and her eyes as blue as death. “How you doing, Legate?” she teases. “A bit stronger than you expected?”

“I’ll be fine,” he hears himself say. His voice sounds strange and alien to his ears, and he laughs at it. “Just give me a moment.” It’s true – the intensity of the peak is already starting to fade, dimming into a comfortable, blanketing buzz. He watches as his free hand reaches out for his glass of untouched kanar and he feels Ezri gently slide the device out of his other hand, bringing it to her mouth for another hit.

Beside him, Weyoun’s nose wrinkles – his expression caught between fascination and disgust – and he cocks his head and stares at the vapor Ezri blows out. The particles shine in the overhead lights, glistening like early morning dew. “I’d like to try,” he says. Ezri takes another quick pull, and then silently hands it to him, her eyes unfocused.

He cradles the device in his hands, and then lifts it to his mouth, mimicking Ezri’s motions. He draws in for a long moment and then releases, and smoky mist gushes past his parted lips. He takes another long pull and then exhales sharply, handing the device back to Ezri and staring vacantly into space. “Damar,” he says, a peculiar note in his voice. Damar twists around to him and is surprised by the sight that greets him. Weyoun’s eyes dilate, and he reclines bonelessly into the back of the sofa, the muscles of his face slackening. “I _feel_ this,” he’s saying wondrously. “Oh, this is unexpected.” He holds his hands up in front of his face, slowly wiggling one finger after the other. “I will… have to inform the Founders of this. Any new substance that affects Vorta-” he breaks off, and tilts his head to the side, flexing his hands experimentally. “What was I saying?”

“ _Fuck_ the Founders,” Damar tells him, downing his kanar in a quick shot as Ezri takes another long drag from the pipe stem. The combination of snakeleaf and alcohol has made his tongue even looser than usual, and he grins at Weyoun’s indignant gasp. A fuzzy, numbing euphoria settles deep inside of him, and he finds himself fixated on Weyoun’s purple eyes, hypnotized by the liquid depths of their color.

“Don’t say such things about them,” Weyoun admonishes. Ezri offers the vape to him and he snatches it from her outstretched hand, taking an angry pull. “Although,” he says reflectively, coughing lightly as mist escapes his mouth, “Sometimes I do wonder about the nature of godhood. Divinity is such a fluid concept cross-culturally. The Founders dictate their godhood to the Dominion, but on many worlds mortals are the ones to determine their own religious rituals and beliefs.” He stares down at the device in his hand, running a thumb along its sleek surface, but it proves only momentarily distracting. “But the Founders have ordained their godhood to us, and so they are gods. Does perception determine reality? And if so, could we postulate that all perceived realities, no matter how bizarre, are equally valid in that no perceptions are ever alike or completely accurate….” He trails off, frowning at nothing in particular, lost in some internal tangent. It sounds like pure gibberish to Damar, but beside them, Ezri gapes mid-sip of kanar, her mouth hanging open and awestruck around the rim of her glass, as if Weyoun has stumbled onto some grand revelation about the universe. Damar is struck by the unpleasant sensation of being a third-wheel to whatever profound discovery they’re both meditating on, and he decides he isn’t nearly high enough for this conversation. He’s about to pull the device from Weyoun’s fingers, when the Vorta snaps himself out of his reverie and grins broadly. Maintaining almost aggressive eye contact with Damar, he wraps his lips around the stem and sucks in deeply, then holds his breath, leaning forward until his lips are almost touching Damar’s to exhale. Damar presses their lips together, inhaling the mist into his own lungs, and reaches out a hand to cradle the back of the Vorta’s head, all thoughts of decorum forgotten under the heady bliss of the drug and the familiar warmth of the kanar.

Damar disentangles from the pseudo-kiss to exhale his portion of the vaporized snakeleaf, and Weyoun stares at him – violet irises ringed around giant pupils. “We should have sex again,” he says, in a voice that sounds almost thunderously loud. Beside him, Ezri startles visibly. “I was thinking about it at work.”

The remark is enough to temporarily sober him up, and Damar feels his entire muscular system contract at once, seizing up and locking in a painful vise around his tendons and bones. A blush burns through his neck, and he chokes out something that might be _shut up_ or a less dignified variant that sounds more like _I humbly beg you, please take mercy and stop talking_. 

Ezri has been doing a dutiful job of pretending to have gone momentarily deaf, but Weyoun seems unable to abide that. Evidently determined to drag her into the conversation, he whips his head around to her, adding, “I don’t mean to be rude. Dax, you are, of course, more than welcome to observe.”

“You are _not_ ,” Damar immediately corrects, trying to simultaneously glare at Weyoun whilst also sending Ezri an apologetic look. It would be a difficult balancing act sober, and as it is he ends up just fluctuating between progressively stupider facial expressions. Ezri gives him an appreciative, bemused shrug nonetheless, and he’s relieved she doesn’t appear to be outraged by Weyoun’s tactless suggestion, at any rate.

“That’s very considerate of you,” Ezri says to Weyoun, plucking the device back from him and taking another pull. She breathes out, and continues sleepily, “But Kira and I are something of a package deal. You understand.”

“Of course,” Weyoun says distractedly, squinting at the hem of her dress, entranced by the refractions of light. “What _is_ that made of, Dax? Is the material threaded with nanotech?”

She presses her palms into the fabric pooling between her legs, crinkling it in her fists. “Well no,” she begins, her eyes glazed, “it’s actually-” She never finishes the sentence. Instead, she’s interrupted by a sudden thumping noise – loud and sharp enough to break through over the music.

They all pause at once, and look at each other. “Did you hear that too?” Weyoun asks, blinking rapidly as if trying in vain to concentrate. “Or did I imagine it?”

“What was that?” Ezri says in a hushed tone. “Should we check? I think we should check.”

Weyoun steeples his fingers together then yanks them apart, and with a dream-like slowness runs his hands up and down the sleeves of their opposite forearms. “I think I heard retching,” he says distantly. “And… splattering?” His mouth puckers with distaste, like he’s just taken a shot of something overpoweringly sour. “Although… perhaps not. The music….” 

Ezri has gone slightly purple in the face, and her eyes bulge. She sucks in a sharp intake of air, and then immediately covers her mouth with her hand, as if to retroactively muffle the sound. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m trying not to make any noise.”

Damar stumbles upright. “You both stay here,” he slurs. He looks down at his feet, willing them to obey his commands. If he focuses enough, he’s _fairly_ confident he can maintain a stable balance. “It could be dangerous.”

Ezri gapes at him. “I’m pretty sure _I_ could beat you up right now,” she hisses, her eyes shining anxiously. She pauses. “Well, maybe not _me_ , specifically. But someone more sober, _certainly_.”

“ _None_ of us could handle themselves right now,” Damar tells her, trying desperately to tear his gaze away from her dress. She’s engulfed in a prism of light – yellows and pinks and greens dance around her and reflect like a rainbow on oil in the sleek black of her hair. He shakes his head, trying to think. “If the three of us go out and the situation is dire – then….” He trails off, the calculation buzzing through his mind. “Mathematically speaking,” he tries to explain. “I think the soundest strategy to minimize danger would be to only have one person go.”

Ezri tilts her head to the side, looking eerily similar to a Vorta. “I’m not sure I follow.” She shares a quick look with Weyoun. “Safety in numbers, right?”

“Yes,” Weyoun agrees. “Dax is correct: Damar – you’re being idiotic.” Damar scowls at him, but before he has time to try and reorganize his thoughts into something more coherent and persuasive, Ezri and Weyoun are both pushing themselves up to stand next to him. Weyoun grins. “What an _adventure_ ,” he purrs delightedly. Ezri swallows, looking as if she might be ill.

“You,” Damar says, pointing to Weyoun. “Are entirely too unconcerned with your own health and safety.”

Ezri – whose cheeks had already been drained of color - is looking paler by the second. “Let’s get this over with,” she begs. “I’m sure it’s nothing – a common side effect of snakeleaf is mild to moderate paranoia – but I’d rather not _sit_ here and wait. Someone might be having a medical emergency.” She takes a second to reorient herself and then heads to the door, pressing the heel of her palm to control panel to open it, and Damar and Weyoun follow her into the corridor. 

They find the body almost immediately, although it would be difficult to overlook. Not far from the door, in a pool of bloody vomit, is the Andorian ambassador, his mouth foamed with drying spittle, and his eyes flattened with death.

Ezri kneels to check his pulse, gagging at the stench of bile and blood. The smell of it – reeking of iron and acid – wafts over to Damar, and his eyes water, his throat contracting as he tries desperately to fight against his own instinct to puke. He’s pretty sure that would set off a chain reaction with Ezri, and he doesn’t want to compound the stench by adding two more puddles of vomit to the Andorian’s. Ezri starts to shakily rise, and he reaches out to help pull her up. She clings to his arm until she is steady, averting her gaze from the body. “He's definitely dead,” she says. “Poor man. He must've been in enormous pain.” A few strands of hair have fallen into her eyes, and she smooths them back reflexively with trembling hands. “I’d say it was poison, but that’s just a guess.”

Weyoun prods at the corpse with his foot. “Well,” he says cheerily. “Mystery solved. That’s what the noise was.” The very picture of nonchalance, he tilts his head to look at Ezri and Damar. “Shall we go back?” 


	6. Chapter 6

The table they sit around is polished to a gleaming shine, enough that their faces are mirrored in its depths – recognizable but warped just enough to be disconcerting. Ezri stares down quietly at her image on the countertop, as if commiserating with her own reflection. Her face contorts with abject distress, and still maintaining eye contact with herself, she blows steam away from the raktajino mug nestled between her hands. Weyoun, to her left, begins to whistle tunelessly, the melody sounding like a bastardized version of the Tellarite music Ezri had played for them the night before. The reminder that the… incident was only a handful of hours earlier leaves a bitter taste in Damar’s mouth, and he scowls, taking a quick gulp from his tea in an attempt to wash it away. He winces as he swallows – the tea had been left unattended too long, and the liquid has already gone cold. To his right, he notices Weyoun has gone quiet. 

Damar has never minded silence, but theirs is less of a calm stillness than it is an awkward vacancy of noise. The soundlessness begins to grow deafening, and Damar shifts uncomfortably, pins-and-needles crawling down his spine. When it becomes apparent that neither Ezri nor Weyoun have any plans to break it, he decides to speak. “So we’re all in agreement that it was the Romulans.”

Ezri frowns, chewing on her bottom lip. “We have no way of knowing that,” she says, but there is a tremble of uncertainty in her voice.

Weyoun, by contrast, is already nodding approvingly in Damar’s direction. “The Romulans are such a treacherous species,” he says. He drags out the word _treacherous,_ shaping it slowly, almost lovingly, and Damar does not like that he sounds nearly approving. Weyoun chuckles lightly to himself, amused by some private joke he has no intention of sharing.

Ezri tenses and her hands grip around her cup more tightly, until her knuckles have gone pale. “It’s dangerous to make those kinds of presumptions,” she says stiffly. “We need to be clear-headed in our approach, and we can’t do that if we don’t leave our biases aside. Isn’t that the whole point of this program? To figure out what happened?”

“That’s right,” Damar agrees impatiently. “So we can figure out how and why the Romulans did it.”

The skin around Ezri’s eyes tenses, as if she’s trying very hard not to roll them. Weyoun scoots his chair closer to her, enough to visually indicate a temporary change in allegiance. Feeling somewhat slighted, Damar shoots him a withering glare the Vorta pretends not to notice. “The Cardassian legal system is so rigid,” he tells Ezri in a heavy tone, his face etched with feigned sympathy. “Alas, we must play by their rules, regardless of how unenlightened they may be.”

Ezri brushes him off, dismissing his words with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t start. We all know the Dominion isn’t any better.” Her lips flatten with displeasure, and she lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I think I’m still a little on edge.” She sips gingerly from her raktajino, makes a face, and then tilts up her mug to chug the rest in a single, extended gulp. “And speaking of the Cardassian legal system, are we sure we’re even allowed to do this?”

“It’s within my jurisdiction,” Damar assures her, for the second time in as many hours. “A Legate’s office is allowed to conduct investigations into military or interplanetary crimes if they choose. Our authority supersedes the police in these matters.” 

“Right,” she mumbles, still looking faintly dubious. “This is all just very different from Starfleet procedure. It’s a bit hard to get used to, I suppose.” 

Weyoun flashes her another benevolent smile oozing with faux-compassion, and then turns to Damar. “Is it ready?”

Damar spares a quick glance down at his PADD. “It’s almost done loading.” Weyoun’s even expression clouds with muted annoyance, as if Damar is somehow to blame for Cardassia’s dismal infrastructure and networking issues. He turns bodily around to Ezri, deciding to adopt the policy of _out of sight, out of mind_ where the Vorta is concerned, at least for the moment. “Didn’t you say one of your predecessors was a killer?” he asks. “Do you still possess any of that… intuition?”

She looks as if she’s been expecting this question, and a look of weary resignation crosses her features. “That was Joran,” she says carefully. “And yes, I can access his memories and personality. He is a part of me.”

“He was the defective Dax, wasn’t he?” Weyoun asks.

Ezri grimaces and her fingers begin to drum out a nervous tempo onto the table. “He was ‘defective’ before he became Dax,” she says. “But I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“A shame that an aberration like him was joined to such a prestigious lineage,” Weyoun says, his eyes shining with manufactured pity. “And it is doubly unfortunate that his essence could not be neatly expunged.” He pauses, his brows drawing together in a display of hesitant contemplation that looks nearly genuine. “For the Vorta,” he begins cautiously, “We are taught to be wary of utilizing memories from defective predecessors, as those recollections and thoughts are likely to have been… colored by the flaws of the clone that had experienced them. They are unreliable at best and at worst they have been known to be quite dangerous. If we must consult these memories in any true depth, it is best to do so during meditation, and not during any periods of stress.” He trails off, and attempts a cheerful smile that only looks pained. “Trill customs may be different, of course, but it doesn’t seem wise to attempt such a thing, especially during a time of… heightened emotional distress.”

Ezri’s fingers go still, and she slowly stretches out her hand to rest on Weyoun’s shoulder. Her expression tightens and then gentles. “We can’t hide from who we have been,” she says softly. “Even if that’s not who we are anymore. Our existence is what it is.”

Weyoun shakes off her hand and forces another smile that looks like he’s just stepped on broken glass. “The risk is, of course, ultimately yours to take.”

Ezri inclines her head, her eyes dark with sorrow. Another silence descends over the room and Damar stares at the both of them, at a loss for how to proceed. Some of the cultural references to the Vorta and Trill species are oblique and faintly bewildering, but he is acutely aware of the nature of the conversation, and the implications Ezri suggests. Fortunately, he’s saved from any action by the ping that chimes from his PADD. He chooses a deity at random and ends up muttering out a quick prayer of thanks to Uzaveh the Infinite, before the irony of invoking an Andorian god in this situation can occur to him.

“The program is ready,” Damar says, tapping on his screen. “And we just received the preliminary toxicology report, if anyone’s curious.” He looks up. “And even if nobody else is curious, I am, so we’re going over it.”

“How decisive of you,” Weyoun simpers, having apparently blown through his daily allotment of sincerity in his earlier interaction with Ezri. He yawns. “Who’s processing it? Not your office, I assume. They don’t have the equipment or the expertise.”

“They have the expertise,” Damar insists, offended on his team’s behalf. He can’t argue against Weyoun’s first point though – their equipment is lackluster at best, and what they have is only sporadically functional. “But Gilora Rejal was… considerate enough have her office perform the analysis.” In truth, it had taken a rather excessive amount of undignified pleading to secure her assistance, and in the end she’d only agreed sulkily, and only after several minutes ranting about the injustice of Kell scrapping their orbital array project. Damar’s assurances that the Dominion had decided to complete the project had hardly mollified her – she had gasped indignantly and immediately asked: _Legate, did you even make them sign non-disclosure agreements before sending the schematics over?_ He scoffs at the memory. _Non-disclosure agreements_. At present, Cardassia’s military barely has enough teeth to enforce compliance with planetary zoning laws. To think that a piece of paper and some boilerplate legalese would stop the Dominion if they wanted to steal their designs – it’s a notion that stretches from absurdity into being downright comedic.

“ _Rejal_ ,” Ezri echoes, her eyes narrowing as if trying to place the name. Her mouth purses into a small frown, and she gives up with a shrug. “It sounded familiar.”

“If you say so,” Damar says absently, returning his attention to the PADD, scrolling down Rejal’s report and picking out the pertinent information. “It says she’s still running tests on the poison itself,” he recites. “Apparently its molecular structure is in some sort of flux – the proteins are degrading at a much more rapid pace than they should.” He frowns, reading on. Although the fields are linked in the Cardassian educational system, he never developed the same aptitude for biochemistry as he did for engineering. He’d always considered that something of a mercy – sparing him from being _too_ enmeshed in womanly pursuits, but at the moment all he can think to do is mentally berate himself for not studying more for those classes. Rejal has appeared to have simplified her report, _marginally_ , but it’s still dense with technical terminology and filled with charts that look more like abstract art than scientific diagrams.

“Does she know what it was?” Ezri asks. “A nerve agent? Or was it some sort of biological weapon, one that was tailored to his genetic code?”

Damar glances back down at the readouts on the PADD, trying to quickly translate Rejal’s findings. “It doesn’t look like it was anything that complex. Apparently designer substances like that have a-” He pauses, and blinks down at the PADD, perplexed. “I don’t actually know _what_ that signature is. But the answer is no. Whatever killed him would’ve had the same effect on any species.” Weyoun perks up at this, and before he can correct him, Damar hastily adds, “ _Aside_ from Vorta. Most likely.”

“Was it even for him?” Weyoun wonders. “The Vorta’s immunity to toxins is not widely-known. He was nearing our quarters when he died. Perhaps it was intended for me, or Dax – or even _you_ , Damar.”

“This was for him,” Ezri says, her voice distant and flat. “He was targeted deliberately.”

“How can you know that?” Weyoun asks suspiciously. “Did the defective Dax inform this judgment?”

Her lips crawl up into a smile that looks too sharp and predatory to fit the youthful softness of her face. “Call it intuition.”

“No traces of poison were found in the nasal cavities or stomach,” Damar says loudly, interrupting them. “We can assume it wasn’t inhaled, or administered through food or drink.” He squints down at a rotating crawl of text tacked on to that section of the report. “Rejal scrawled in a note suggesting it might’ve been a hypospray, but that just looks like a guess – I’m not seeing anything else that would support that theory.”

Ezri nods, humming thoughtfully. “You’d have to get awfully close for that. And that would seem out of sorts with the nature of the weapon used. The risk doesn’t match the method – poison is usually chosen precisely because of how covertly it can be administered.”

“Almost stereotypically Romulan, then,” Damar mutters.

Weyoun glances at him briefly, acknowledging the remark with an amused smirk. Then he turns back to Ezri, asking, “What are you thinking instead? Absorbed through the skin? It’s possible the killer applied the toxin somewhere they knew their victim would touch.” He grins, as if this is a delightful game of theoreticals and not an ongoing murder investigation. “Oh this is so _fun_. All the layers – the subterfuge – the unfolding plots! I had no idea returning to Cardassia would be so riveting.” He gives Damar a pleading look. “We should do this more often.” 

“It probably _was_ absorbed through the skin,” Ezri agrees. “Although that would’ve necessitated a protracted observation of the target – monitoring and tracking his daily movements, cataloguing his schedule, etcetera.”

“It fits the pattern,” Weyoun says, almost breathless now with excitement. He smiles broadly. “Although we’re certainly getting ahead of ourselves. Damar, would you kindly run the scenario?”

“Fine,” Damar says, standing up and carefully lifting his mug off of the table. “Computer: initiate program.”

The table and their chairs dissolve in a flurry of black pixels and Ezri squeaks out a protest as she desperately grabs for her raktajino mug before it can shatter onto the ground. The room pulses with light and then reforms, narrow walls flickering into existence around them and a low ceiling gathering overhead. When it is complete, the holosuite has been transformed into an exact replica of the corridor in the embassy where they found the Andorian.

And as for the Andorian himself… a holographic likeness of ambassador stumbles into view and lurches, catching itself against a wall before his knees buckle and he collapses onto the ground. He hacks out a line of discolored mucus and then he pukes, his body starting to shake. Weyoun takes a half-step forward, staring disinterestedly at the body as it continues to spasm. Another round of convulsions hit – each successive one growing increasingly violent – and blood-speckled vomit spews past lips darkened to a deep, oxygen-deprived purple. The recreation of the Andorian begins to gag, and his hands scrape desperately at his throat. He pisses himself, his eyes bulge out - red with broken capillaries, and then finally he makes a gurgling noise and his chest rattles out a low wheeze, the sound grotesquely similar to a deflating toy. His body stiffens and then stills, and his eyes glaze over, staring up sightlessly at the ceiling.

“Freeze program,” Damar commands, and obediently, an eerie stillness sweeps across the expanse of the hologram. The faint breeze of recycled air rustling the Andorian’s stained robes abruptly terminates, and any ambient noises disappear. He looks around. “Unless anyone is interested in watching a repeat?” He glowers at Weyoun as the Vorta brightens at the suggestion. “You don’t get a vote.”

Ezri edges forward, stooping over to study the body. Her hands – steady and clinical in their efficiency – drift along the Andorian’s neck, pausing briefly to press below his ears. She continues her examination with that same manner of methodical indifference, rolling back the gauzy sleeves of his robes to inspect the crooks of his arms. There is newfound quality in her eyes that unsettles Damar, a spark of something that is simultaneously detached and eager – reminiscent of a cold, predatory hunger. He still does not understand the complexities of Trill physiology or psychology – he does not know how their species works, what to what degree the symbiont and past lives fuse with the pre-existing personality of the current host. He knows, conceptually at least, that Ezri is merely the current host of a much more ancient organism – that she and it cannot be cleanly divided into their respective component parts. And yet, this is the first time he has felt that someone else is looking out through Ezri’s eyes. It is almost as if another entity is in the room with them, dressed in her skin. Her movements have grown bolder, more fluid, and her pointer finger twitches every few seconds in a seemingly involuntary tic he has never noticed before.

His PADD beeps, heralding an incoming message, and Damar opens it, relieved for the excuse to avert his gaze from Ezri. “Ha!” he exclaims. “The poison is a mutated variant of Veridium Six. _Romulan_.” Ezri’s head snaps up to him, her eyes wide, startled back into normalcy by his outburst. “I told you,” he says, smirking at her. Perhaps he could stand to be less smug in this miniature victory, but he has too few causes for celebration in his life as it is and he plans to enjoy his moment of vindication while he can.

“Klingons have utilized that poison as well,” Weyoun muses. “Although it is quite popular among the Tal Shiar.” His eyes flicker back towards the Andorian, his gaze roaming over the mess of bodily fluids that surround him like a sickly, hellish halo. “That being said, it’s hardly proof in and of itself.” He smiles, his gaze still glued to the corpse. “Of course, Cardassian _guilt_ has always been a clever intermingling of truth and invention. Your people do love their stories, after all.”

The statement is delivered too mildly to be an indictment, but Damar prickles at the insinuation nonetheless. “This is an investigation, Weyoun. And the evidence, as it now stands, is sufficient for me to question them.” His gaze drifts instinctively to Ezri. She is an alien and she is his guest – not the sort of person who would normally be granted access to a Cardassian interrogation. But he is a Legate, and his voice carries the authority of Central Command itself – inviting her might be a breach in protocol but there are not many who would dare call him out for it.

She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “I have my own work,” she says, and he is gratified to see that her smile has lost its cruel edge.

Weyoun pivots to face Damar, and he looks almost giddy. “I’ve _missed_ overseeing interrogations with you.”

Damar stares at him blankly, wondering if something had gone horribly wrong in Weyoun 9’s activation, because the memories _he_ is apparently accessing are a far-cry from the ones sequestered away in Damar’s hippocampus: in the joint interrogations they had worked, Damar distinctly recalls Weyoun doing most of the talking, while he’d been forced to hang back and intermittently attempt to look intimidating. On every occasion, bar none, he had either been drunk or nursing a hangover. “You aren’t coming,” he informs him.

Weyoun scowls. “I’m far superior at reading body language than you are,” he complains. “And you didn’t seem to mind the idea of Dax joining you.” His eyes narrow. “Per the official decree of your state, the Dominion is considered a foreign power, the same as the Federation. We are not considered an _enemy_ of the Cardassian Union.”

“It’s not that,” Damar says, lowering his voice to prevent Ezri from overhearing. “She’s a member of Starfleet,” he continues, “But you – you’re not a solider. It’s different.” Hearing the words out loud makes him realize how nonsensical his reasoning really is. His justification sounds, at best, like a crude rationalization. It is during times like these when Damar wishes he possessed some measure of Dukat’s easy skill at deception. A _lie_ would serve much better here, because without it all he has left is the truth, and the _truth_ _is_ his reason for keeping Weyoun behind is not a logical one.

“I’m not a civilian, either,” Weyoun retorts primly, just as Damar had expected he would. He tilts his head and regards Damar with a sneer, spite burning hot in his violet eyes. “Is this _sentiment_?” he asks, his words lilting enough to be almost teasing, if not for barbed mockery ringed around each honeyed syllable.

Mockery or not, Damar feels himself flush. “I don’t want to meet Weyoun 10 so soon.” The confession leaves his mouth dry, and his tongue scrapes roughly as he tries to swallow. “I haven’t minded Weyoun 9 so far… comparatively speaking.”

Weyoun’s eyes widen at this admittance, but he quickly suppresses any signs of surprise. “If anyone should be cautious,” he starts, his voice dropping into a silky purr that is almost seductively low, “It’s you. There’s no Damar 2.”

“If there ever is, make sure he’s a little taller than the base model,” Damar jokes. Weyoun does not seem remotely impressed by the attempt at humor, and gives him a look designed to communicate supreme scorn. Damar regards him for a moment, and before he can overthink it, he reaches out to take Weyoun’s hand. The Vorta blinks at him, his placid mask pulled taut over his features, and then after a hesitation interlaces his fingers through Damar’s, staring down at their now-linked hands with a fascinated expression that is slightly too soft around the edges to be called simple curiosity. “Indulge me,” Damar says. He’s still working to maintain a hushed tone for the sake of privacy, but the end result is that his voice comes out as a husky murmur. “Just this once.”

Weyoun’s eyes are still fixated on their joined hands. “Very well, Damar,” he says. “I’ll stay here and watch over Dax.” He looks up, and his eyes narrow into slits. “But just this once,” he warns. 

* * *

The Romulan’s hand hovers only a few millimeters away from the yellow-tinged force field of the holding cell. His fingers ghost along the barrier, bold in their exploration, and his thin lips quirk into a smile as if intrigued by the prospect of a severe shock. Damar recognizes him immediately – it is the black-eyed Romulan, the one who had ambushed him in the hallway a few days earlier. He’s pleased to see him. He had not specified to his guards which Romulan from the delegation to interview first, but he had secretly hoped it would be this one. Weyoun once claimed that all Romulans are infatuated by secrets – and that may still be correct – but he already knows this one has a second love – his own voice.

“You’re flirting with electrical burns-” Damar hesitates and consults his PADD, “Ambassador Volehk.” His tongue trips over the foreign name, fumbling with unfamiliar syllables, and the Romulan’s eyes glitter with a baleful mirth.

“Rather poor pronunciation,” he critiques, not lowering his hand. “I’ve noticed that about you Cardassians – you always manage to drain the _music_ out of our names. You butcher them nearly as badly as humans do.” His pointer finger taps forward, enough that the force field ripples at its nearness, pulsing with a warning burst of golden light. “Would you mind deactivating this so we can talk like civilized beings?”

“Of course,” Damar says. He settles himself behind the table positioned in front of the holding cell and deactivates the force field, gesturing for the Romulan to join him. “We’re both reasonable men, aren’t we?” The words come out stiff, and somewhere in between sitting down and finishing his sentence his spine has gone ramrod straight. He exhales, forcing himself to relax, already regretting leaving Weyoun behind. There _had_ been a reason Weyoun had taken the lead during their interrogations, beyond just Weyoun’s pathological need to remain in control of every situation. Weyoun had been right – his decision had been a sentimental, impulsive one, made without consulting even the most basic common sense.

The Romulan sits before him, his black eyes watchful and wicked. He’s still wearing that same chalky suit – it reminds Damar of blighted, ashy terrain, the color of an incinerated city, and it contrasts unnervingly with the sickly pallor of his skin. He turns his head with an exaggerated slowness, taking in the cramped room in all of its dank, oppressive misery. “I must say this is downgrade from my normal accommodations,” he states. “What’s this about, Legate? If I didn’t know better, I’d almost classify this treatment as _hostile_.”

 _You know_ nothing _about Cardassian hostility_ Damar is tempted to blurt out. But the Romulan’s coal-dark eyes sparkle greedily, and he has the distinct feeling he’s being baited into an aggressive response, although he cannot fathom for what purpose. He bites his tongue and instead of speaking pushes his PADD to the side and stares into the Romulan’s eyes, in the way he distantly remembers Weyoun frequently doing. Most prisoners had seemed to be disconcerted by the Vorta’s gaze, but the Romulan shows no such adverse reaction. “You know why I’m here,” Damar tells him, keeping his voice level. “The Andorian ambassador was murdered last night.”

“A tragedy,” Volehk says indifferently. “But isn’t it a little premature to call such a thing _murder_? That’s an ugly, weighted word.”

“I doubt many people accidentally ingest Veridium Six,” Damar says dryly. “It’s a rare substance, isn’t it? Difficult to manufacture.” 

Volehk shrugs lightly, and absently traces a slender finger along the surface of the table, his nail catching on every nick and indent he can find, generating a high-pitch screech with each slow scratch over the chrome. “Veridium Six is a delicate compound. But extremely effective, and extraordinary painful.” He locks gazes with Damar, and his eyes are a wasteland. “Someone must’ve wanted him to suffer before he died.” And at this, he has the audacity to grin.

Damar’s temper flares, and his clenches his jaw before anything too reactionary can leave his mouth. “Let me be straightforward,” he says tightly. _Straightforward_ is probably the worst strategy to take with a Romulan, but unfortunately Damar is not clever enough or subtle enough to utilize those approaches instead. “You and your compatriots are under Cardassian custody. Once I’ve finished with you, I’ll be speaking with each of them. There’s enough evidence to convict you regardless of whether or not you decide to confess. But I would recommend you do so. Our judicial system tends to favor… contrition.”

“You really are a mesmerizing thing, aren’t you?” Volehk asks. He leans back, and the harsh overhead lights cast his hollow cheekbones into sharp relief. When he smiles, he looks almost skeletal. “The epitome of Cardassian duty.” He chuckles to himself. “A bit of a simple-minded brute, but I suppose that can’t be helped. For an alien, you’re almost attractive.”

Disgust slithers through Damar, and he resists the urge to shiver. “I’m flattered,” he says, struggling to keep the revulsion from bleeding into his voice. The Romulan’s flat eyes bore into him with an unsettling intensity, and for a moment Damar feels as if _he’s_ the one being interrogated.

“I won’t be here much longer,” Volehk promises. “But don’t worry, Legate. This has been an illuminating experience. I certainly won’t hold it against you. You were just…” his nails drag against the table again, creating another painful, metallic whine, “doing your duty. I’m sure you follow orders _very_ well.”

As if on cue, there is a sharp rap against the door, and the Romulan looks over Damar’s shoulder, an expectant expression crossing his features. “Ah, right on schedule,” he purrs, brushing imaginary dust off of his suit. He stands to rise as the door glides open. “The pleasure was all mine.”

“Sit back down,” Damar barks at him as the newcomer, a young Cardassian in polished armor, comes to stand at his shoulder. “Nobody said you could leave.”

“I’m afraid that’s not quite true, Legate Damar,” the soldier begins apologetically. Damar rises, fixing him with a cold glare, and he briefly cows back, before gulping and turning to the Romulan, dipping his head in a display that is nauseatingly deferential. “You’re free to go, sir. You have our sincere apologies about any inconveniences you may have experienced.”

“Who ordered this?” Damar hisses, although he already knows what the answer will be. It’s written onto the soldier’s shocked, terrified face, it burns darkly in the Romulan’s triumphant eyes.

The soldier swallows audibly, and blinks at him. “Legate Kell, of course.”

* * *

“What are you going to do?” Ezri whispers to him later. They are in her quarters, sharing the rest of the kanar from the night before, but the alcohol is doing a poor job of chasing away the cold that has settled into his bones. “Is there someone you can go to?”

How very _Starfleet_ of her, appealing to some higher committee, some greater, democratic oversight. No such process exists on Cardassia. The State is Central Command, and Central Command is Legate Kell. This is by design: the limbs should not think independent of the brain, they should _obey_ it. One purpose, in harmony. It is the sort of mindless, ruthless efficiency that has enabled countless atrocities and it is the model of government Damar had once hoped Kell would steer their people away from. He had been wrong.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he says definitively, feeling an icy ribbon of despair wrap into a vise around his innards. He drains his glass, and immediately pours himself another.

Ezri squeezes his shoulder, and he tries to let himself be comforted by her touch. “Garak and Julian are on Cardassia, aren’t they?” she asks hesitantly. “Perhaps we could contact them?”

“No,” he snaps. She flinches back, her hand dropping away from him, and he sighs. “No,” he repeats, in a calmer voice. “I’ll try to talk to Kell tomorrow. Maybe he’ll give me some answers. He owes me that much.”

Ezri looks skeptical. “And then what?” she asks.

And this, Damar has no answer for. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy early v-day everyone! hope ya'll enjoy!!!
> 
> cw: discussions of sexual assault and self-blame; also, nsfw sexual content later in
> 
> Also if anyone is curious Legate Kell is a canon character! He’s the dude who preprogrammed a hologram to yell at Dukat in civil defense!

He has not seen Kell face-to-face in almost a full year but the man is exactly the same, as if he has been plucked directly from Damar’s memory. His decades in the service have left his face lined with the early ravages of time, but he still exudes the strength and vigor of a man half his age. All in all, the Legate has the classical bearing of an old, distinguished officer – even in this relatively informal setting, he carries himself straight-backed and proud, as if he’s about to deliver an address to the Union. It is not uncommon for higher ranking members of Central Command, upon reaching the rank of Gul or Legate, to enjoy the newfound freedom and comparative lack of oversight of their positions and lose some of their perfect, military posture. Damar has not fallen victim to this trend as severely as some of his fellows have, but compared to Kell’s rigid posture he’s practically slouching. He quickly pulls his shoulders back and hopes Kell hasn’t noticed.

At Damar’s side, his adjunct coughs to get his attention. “If that’s all, Legate, shall I give you both your privacy?” she asks crisply. She looks subtly different today, and it takes him a moment to piece together why. She’s wearing makeup: dark blue pigment has been applied to her chufa, making the soft outline of it stand out more pronounced on her forehead. He cannot recall her ever doing so before, and he wonders absently at the reason for this change – if there is indeed a reason beyond it just being a passing whim.

“Yes, that will be all,” he tells her. “Thank you,” he adds, remembering she had been the one to arrange this meeting upon his request. He doesn’t envy the administrative hoops and bureaucratic red-tape she must’ve had to navigate in order to do so.

She nods at him and then inclines her head to Kell. “Sir.”

Kell dismisses her with a curt nod, and she turns to leave, shooting a final, lingering glance in Damar’s direction as she does. 

Damar appraises Kell’s office. It’s needlessly spacious and it is the sort of room that is austere by choice - even the deliberately affected minimalism drips with opulence. The scarcity that has gripped the rest of the Cardassian Union doesn’t seem to have touched any part of this room - it is an immaculate space: the ceiling is almost dauntingly high, the walls and floor glisten with a dark, glossy sheen, and every piece of installed hardware looks brand-new. Even the layout of the embedded technology has been carefully arranged to conform to the precise, geometrical standards of design his people have always preferred. There is a window behind the expanse of Kell’s desk, the glass tinted so that the sunlight seeping in from outside diffuses with a soft, golden warmth. Beyond it, the rebuilt sprawl of Cardassia Prime’s government district stands on proud display. He cannot stop himself from contrasting this against his own office – malfunctioning equipment, cramped accommodations, and a single replicator that can’t make anything more complex than a protein bar (and a dry, only debatably edible one at that). An uncharitable envy, sharp-toothed and vindictive, rears up and begins to gnaw at his insides, and Damar drags his gaze away from the sparse, unadorned splendor of the room towards the retreating figure of his adjunct. She seems to sense him watching her, and she looks back over her shoulder to him before she leaves, her eyes flickering urgently to Kell and then back again, attempting to signal some message that is lost on Damar.

The door hisses shut behind her and Kell examines Damar, scanning him up and down and looking every inch like a commanding officer standing in judgment of their subordinate. He really is the quintessential Cardassian, Damar finds himself thinking for the second time in as many minutes – everything about him projects the image of cool, measured discipline. Damar cannot help but compare him to Dukat; he would’ve once been loath to admit it, but his fondness for his old mentor has waned over the years, tempering with time (and many rants from Kira), and now he willingly acknowledges that the man had always possessed an unappealingly slippery disposition: one that Kell does not share. Kell holds his gaze steadily, and his eyes are clear and unguarded. Damar had once considered them to be _honest_. Now, he can only wonder just how badly he has misjudged the man, and bitterly ask himself if his tenure with Dukat had permanently damaged his standards and his definitions of words like _truthful_ and _trustworthy_.

“That adjunct of yours,” Kell says at last, his lips pursing with imperious distaste. His frown deepens as he searches for the name. “Miska. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Gul Evek’s bastard daughter, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “I can’t fathom the favors he had to pull to get her installed in the office of a Legate. Damar, I’d be more than happy to transfer her elsewhere for you. There are plenty of fine _Cardassian_ women that would be more than pleased to have a chance to work with a war hero such as yourself.”

“She is Cardassian,” Damar says bluntly. “And I’m satisfied with her work. That’s not what I’m here to discuss, Legate.”

Kell blows out a breath. “ _Half_ Cardassian,” he corrects. “But I won’t argue it further, Damar. You’ve more than earned your share of… eccentricities.” Kell’s gaze sharpens, becoming assessing again, and he scrutinizes Damar. “I have a feeling I know exactly what you’re here for.”

Damar inclines his head. “Then I won’t waste your time with innuendo. Legate, why did you cancel my investigation into the ambassador’s murder?”

Kell smiles as if pleased, and Damar can detect no hint of artificiality in the expression. He turns and steps towards his desk, extending a hand towards the bottle of kanar that’s balanced precariously on the edge. In a swift motion he wrenches the cork free, and it slides out with a sharp pop. “So straight-forward,” he compliments, reaching around his desk to pull out two glasses. The curvature of the bottle reflects the light from the window and distorts it, casting green-hued shadows onto Kell’s hands as he pours out the kanar. He offers a glass to Damar without asking, the liquid sloshing thickly inside. “I’ve always respected that about you, Damar,” he continues. “You never shared Dukat’s infernal need to constantly dissemble.” He scowls at some distant memory and lifts his glass to his lips, draining the contents. “What a pompous fool. He was incapable of having a conversation that wasn’t peppered with veiled threats and insincere flattery. He’d make you wade through a river of bullshit before he even started to arrive at his point. I’m sure he fancied himself quite subtle.” Kell examines his emptied glass for a second and then places it back on his desk with enough force that it thumps audibly against the wooden countertop. “He was a man of words and intrigue – only a man of action when _action_ suited his manipulations. But you and I… we are soldiers, aren’t we? Thrust into politics unwillingly.”

If Kell is expecting a response from him, he is to be disappointed. Damar stands stoically, his untouched kanar warming in his grip.

“I will put it plainly,” Kell says after a pause, perhaps realizing Damar has no intention of speaking, “I shut down the investigation at the request of the Romulans. Politics are an uglier business than war, Damar, and it forces us to make unpleasant choices.”

A muscle spasms in Damar’s jaw, and the kanar in his hand begins to look very tempting. He throws it back and lets the sharp heat of the alcohol linger in his mouth before he swallows. “Unpleasant choices,” he repeats stiffly. “What _choice_ are you referring to, exactly?”

“Our alliance with the Romulans, of course,” Kell explains patiently. “It cannot be compromised.”

“They murdered a man on a diplomatic mission,” Damar seethes, suddenly livid. His fist clenches around the kanar glass, tight enough that if he squeezes even fractionally harder he risks it shattering in his hand. “Cardassia is responsible for ensuring the security of the embassy and the safety of all of its residents. The Romulans disrespected us _blatantly_ ; they violated our laws under our own noses.”

“There are things happening that are beyond some Andorian ambassador,” Kell snaps. His voice softens marginally. “It was a shame what happened to Sihlaan. I had come to respect him very much. But we cannot allow the tragedy of his passing to interfere with our plans for the future.”

“His _passing_?” Damar scoffs. “The Romulans _killed_ him. The evidence is irrefutable. They barely made a token effort to conceal their involvement.”

Kell’s eyes narrow. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“We do,” Damar insists, frustrated. “The poison was Romulan. The Andorian was a political opponent who had protested the Federation’s treaty allowing for Romulan mining operations in the neutral zone-” _this_ tidbit had been one Weyoun and Ezri had uncovered, much to his gratitude, “- and Volehk all but gloated about his death.”

“Even if the Romulans did commit this crime,” Kell begins carefully, “And that is not the official position of the Cardassian state, nor will it ever be – we cannot jeopardize our relationship with them by trying to arbitrate petty disputes between alien powers.”

“Andoria is a Federation world,” Damar retorts. “You would risk jeopardizing _that_ relationship? Starfleet hasn’t done much to assist us, but they’ve done far more than the Romulan Empire has.”

“The Romulan Empire has contributed more to Cardassia’s future than you know,” Kell says sharply. He looks at Damar for a long moment and then relents, stepping forward to clasp him on the shoulders. “Damar, I truly am sorry. There are things in motion that will become apparent to you soon, and I _promise_ you will be included in these developments. But for now there are simply too many moving pieces for us to deviate from the course we are on.” He squeezes firmly and then releases, shaking his head. “Prosecuting the Romulans would be… a deviation that would undo far too much work.” He gazes at Damar, and his tone softens until it is almost paternally affectionate. “You are my most trusted soldier, Damar. You have never faltered from your duty to Cardassia, even when it was unpleasant.”

“If you trust me so much, perhaps you should include me in these plans of yours now.” With a grunt of repressed anger, he runs a hand through his hair, heedless of how it immediately disturbs the immaculately slicked-back strands. “Every day I seem to discover something new that I was never informed of. I’ve had to learn from my _alien guests_ – instead _you_ – that the funding for the reconstruction has been quietly siphoned away over the last year. Where did it go, Kell?”

Kell doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he regards Damar with a look of quiet fondness. “You are an honorable man,” he says, admiration clear in his tone. “You rose above Dukat in every way.” He exhales, and for the first time his demeanor betrays his age as his expression crumples and his shoulders hunch. “You deserved far better than that man as your mentor, Damar,” he tells him, his voice heavy with pity. “I know how he treated you – how too many of your commanding officers treated you: as a yes-man and a personal whore.”

Damar finds he does not like what he sees in Kell’s eyes, and he struggles against the impulse to avert his gaze. For all that he has always understood the right of his superiors to do with him as they thought best, they are not memories he is proud of and he does not wish to have those moments revisited or dissected by Kell. Dukat’s touch had been the only one he had welcomed, but the rest… he would not have chosen them for himself. He despairs at the sympathy in Kell’s voice, and shame floods through him at the notion that the Legate might see Damar as nothing better than some weak victim of circumstance. Damar is not some Orion sex slave sold off to the highest bidder, nor is he some poor Vorta prostituted to foreign dignitaries to serve the grand plans of their Founders. The thought of it is abhorrent. And he is certainly nothing like those _Bajoran_ comfort women traded around among the military elite. He is an obedient soldier of the Cardassian Union, and he has always followed the chain of command – always served his superiors – even when it was difficult. For Kell to imply otherwise – for him to treat this as something tantamount to rape –. Damar tightens his grip on his glass, deciding he would welcome the distraction – the pain - of it breaking. He is disappointed when it does not.

“I wish you had been my officer instead,” Kell says. “I would’ve spared you from all of that. You have always had a clear sense of duty, Damar, and we both know those men wasted away your intellect and your potential.” He sighs again, and then breathes in deeply, straightening back into his usual militarily perfect posture. “I know things have not been easy for you or your team lately. Your office has certainly had to shoulder many of the burdens of Cardassia’s shortages.” He gives Damar a contemplative look. “Perhaps I can ease some of that burden. I’ve already made sure your PADDs are on the top of the repair list, and I’d be more than happy to increase your annual budget.” He runs an idle finger along the swirling, carved sides of the kanar bottle, but does not make a move to pour a second glass for either of them. “Your projects are works of genius, Damar. As feminine as these aptitudes of yours may be, your work deserves a chance to shine.”

It is an over-abundance of good news, and Damar scowls. “This feels like a bribe.”

It is an open insult to declare as much, but Kell shrugs, unconcerned. “It’s a reward for your patience. The first of many more to come.” He leans forward, his expression growing somber. “Damar – know that everything I do is for the benefit of our world. We are patriots, you and I. We both love Cardassia.”

“Yes,” Damar agrees, grudgingly, distrustfully. He does not doubt Kell’s affection for the Cardassian Union is genuine, but that is a small, insignificant detail among the larger picture that has been painted for him over the last few weeks. Funding drained away for mysterious projects, a murder that Kell refuses to address, vast sections of the planet denied crucial aid – there is too much for Damar to give Kell the benefit of the doubt anymore, as much as a part of him wants to. And there are so many pieces still missing, so much still being withheld from him. The negative space where this missing knowledge should go throbs like an infection in his mind - his awareness of his own ignorance as debilitating and acutely painful as a physical injury. He has no doubt that Kell’s meeting with him is little more than a friendly cover for a strategic attempt at a truce – to mollify Damar enough so he’ll back down while Kell finishes whatever plots he and the Romulans are devising. All these thoughts race through his mind, and if he were Weyoun – if he possessed half of the Vorta’s sly cunning – perhaps he would find some way to voice them cleverly enough to draw out more of the truth from Kell. But he is not Weyoun, and his intellect has always been directed to puzzles of the engineering sort, not to the manipulations of politics and the nuances of interpersonal relationships. He has nothing left to say.

As he turns to leave Kell calls out to him. “Do you remember,” the man begins, “When you offered me leadership over the Union?”

Damar stiffens, and slowly turns back to Kell, regarding him warily. “I do.”

“Then you remember how I almost refused you,” Kell tells him. “But _you_ convinced me that we shared a vision of prosperity for our people. And you entrusted that future to me. I will not fail us, Damar – and I will certainly not fail our dream for Cardassia. And when the day comes that Cardassia again takes its rightful place in the sun, I will expect you to be right by my side, sharing with me in the warmth of victory.” 

Damar stays silent, and instead turns his head to peer out Kell’s window. The city beyond stares back at him: the fang-like sweep of protruding finials stab into the skyline and the towers and blocks of buildings are arranged with a severe, impeccably mathematical precision. The view really is beautiful, deceptively so: this office of Kell’s, this little palace he has erected above Cardassia City gazes down only on the grandeur of one of the few completely restored sections of their metropolis. He wonders if this has allowed Kell to forget that the rest of Cardassia does not enjoy the same luxuries, that their world has suffered a cataclysm and that the wound of it still bleeds fresh. Or perhaps Kell has not forgotten at all – maybe he has simply given himself permission to pretend otherwise, so that he may turn his attentions upwards, away from his planet, to the stars and the schemes and machinations of secret alliances and intergalactic plots. Meanwhile, Cardassia’s wounds go untended, and Damar knows it will not be long until they begin to fester. 

* * *

He goes to Weyoun later, because he does not want to be alone.

Weyoun must see something truly pathetic on his face with those half-blind eyes of his, for the usual mockery drains from the Vorta’s smile and he lets Damar inside without a word. 

Damar collapses into the enveloping plushness of Weyoun’s sofa and finds he cannot even muster the necessary energy to hate the gaudy thing. “You were right,” he says simply.

Damar watches with a dulled fascination as Weyoun’s innate impulse to gloat battles for dominance against some vestigial empathy. His lips press together as his pale features tense and then smooth over. “About Kell?” the Vorta finally asks, and Damar appreciates he has the decency to phrase it as a question.

“Yes,” Damar says shortly. “I don’t know why – he wouldn’t tell me – but he’s working with the Romulans. And the missing funding – he didn’t seem remotely concerned about it. I’m convinced he’s behind that too.”

Weyoun sits down next to him, and his eyes sparkle gleefully as that restless mind of his begins to churn through the implications of this news. “Fascinating,” he breathes, the shadow of a smile fleeting across his lips. Damar knows the Vorta is already busy recalibrating a dozen working theories, and formulating a hundred more.

Damar is too tired to truly be angry with him, but he does make a point to hold up a hand, stopping Weyoun as the Vorta draws in a quick breath in preparation to unleash a torrent of chatter about the myriad of possibilities and plots. “Don’t,” Damar says. “Please.”

Something unreadable goes through Weyoun’s eyes, and he tilts his head to examine Damar. He pauses for a moment before speaking, and his next words at not the ones Damar had expected. “You’ve still never told me why you didn’t assume leadership of Cardassia, after the war.”

“Are you really so curious about that?” Damar asks bitterly.

Weyoun blinks and recoils slightly, as if offended by the question. “Of course I am,” he says. “I don’t understand why you let Kell take charge.”

“I didn’t _let_ him do anything,” Damar says in a rough, strangled voice. He has to force the words out, and he chokes on the admittance. “I _insisted_ he lead. He was one of the first to pledge himself to me – he wouldn’t have taken command if I didn’t ask him to.”

Weyoun’s mouth drops open, but Damar cannot even savor the small victory of stunning the Vorta into silence. “I don’t understand,” he says at last.

“He had all these grand plans for Cardassia,” Damar bites out. “Specific projects to endorse, ways to speed along the reconstruction.” He looks away from Weyoun, ashamed. “I had nothing.” Nothing but _hope_ – and hope alone had never been enough to build a civilization on. He waits for Weyoun to respond, but the Vorta remains quiet, his head still tilted as if confused. The silence sits heavily between them, and Damar finds himself suddenly, dizzyingly furious at Weyoun for not understanding. A wash of revitalizing anger surges through him, burning away his exhaustion and building to an inferno as the heat spreads to his muscles, his lungs, his throat. He does not bother to stave off the spill of words that tumble past his lips, and he does not try to temper their vehement edge. “Cardassia made me into a legend,” he snarls. “There are people who treat me like some sort of _god_. But what did I _really_ do for Cardassia, in the end? I helped lead us into ruin. _I_ helped Dukat bring your Dominion here, and under _my_ command hundreds of thousands of Cardassian soldiers died in those wars. And when my conscience couldn’t tolerate it anymore, I instigated a rebellion that lead to the near-extinction of my species. Countless _millions_ dead, on a scale so vast I can still barely fathom it.”

He thinks to the dead now, all the casualties: named and nameless, buried and unburied. The memories swim in his mind – bloated bodies forgotten under the harsh sun, charred skin and mangled hands grasping out towards children that have already been lost, gaping, eyeless skulls, and rotting corpses piled onto each other as the dead are slowly, painstakingly dragged out from the ruins and rubble. He thinks of all the blood spilled in his name – enough to flood the desert itself - and he feels as if he’s drowning in it; he gasps for breath and desperately sucks in air.

“How many lives might have been spared if Cardassia hadn’t been poisoned by the _hope_ I fed them?” he rasps. “The Federation and their allies were going to retake the Quadrant no matter what – the Founder was dying, the ketracel-white shipments were being cut off.” He does not know if it is true of not – he can never know. Perhaps without the mass uprisings he’d inspired the Breen-Dominion alliance would’ve eventually emerged victorious. Perhaps there is a reality where Cardassians never fought back against their oppressors: where they remained subjugated while the Founder declared herself sovereign of the galaxy and fashioned herself a throne from the bones of Starfleet’s admiralty. But the thought of it – the very _possibility_ that all those deaths might’ve been for _nothing_ is one that has kept him up on too many nights.

Damar feels the first trickle of wetness spill down his cheek, and he swipes his hand under his eye, attempting to quickly remove all evidence of his tears. Typical of his body to react in the way that most effectively compounds his shame: he is _Cardassian_ , he is disciplined, and he is – he _should be_ – better than this. _He_ is the master of his own emotions. He is not some soft alien letting his feelings master _him_. But this has become such a recurring theme in Damar’s life, to the point that it is surely a cosmic joke of some kind: his body will always betray him; the base instincts of his flesh will always override his willpower and common sense. The Vorta sitting beside him is a living testament to that inescapable truth.

He feels fingers, startlingly gentle, card through his hair, running through the already-loosened strands in a rhythmic motion that is nearly soothing. “I’m sorry, Damar,” Weyoun murmurs, and Damar chooses to believe that the look of sympathy creasing his features is genuine. If it is a lie, it is an extraordinarily well-crafted one, a veritable masterpiece of manufactured empathy.

Without conscious intent, Damar finds himself leaning into Weyoun’s touch. “I just wanted things to be better,” he tells him in a rough voice. He hesitates before speaking again, trembling with the confession, with the weight of this secret he’s carried for the last three years. “I was afraid that I would just make things worse. Cardassia was desperate for leadership, desperate for unity. They would’ve followed me anywhere. But all I know is how to rule by force. All I know are the lessons Dukat and the Dominion taught me: cruelty, disproportionate retribution, conquest.” He risks a glance at Weyoun, but if the Vorta is offended by the inclusion of his empire here he says nothing. His hand does not falter as it continues to stroke Damar’s hair. “I had my dream of a better Cardassia,” he says. “A freer Cardassia. But I had no idea how to bring that dream to life. I was afraid that if I assumed command, I would fall back onto the patterns I was used to. But Kell… Kell promised a better way. And I wanted so badly to believe in him.”

Weyoun trails soft kisses along his jaw, down the ridge of his neck. His hands move from Damar’s hair to his shoulders, his back, caressing over rigid muscles and massaging lightly into the knots of tension. “You did what you thought was right.”

“I was a coward,” Damar says bleakly. “And I have ruined Cardassia again.” His eyes sting and his chest shakes in a silent sob. “Tell me what to do,” he pleas hoarsely. Weyoun is a conniving creature and Damar still does not entirely trust him – but he is viciously intelligent and he has proved himself more trustworthy than Kell. Unlike Kell, Damar knows exactly how Weyoun’s allegiances are ordered: his ultimate loyalty is reserved for the Founders, and then under that his priorities are himself, first, followed by the beings in the galaxy Weyoun has deemed sufficiently interesting. Damar assumes he can count himself among their numbers, although he has always been leery about directly asking so.

Weyoun’s fingers have gone still, and he slowly migrates his hands to Damar’s shoulders, gripping them tightly as he pulls himself over and rearranges himself over Damar’s lap. “Don’t trouble yourself by thinking about the future tonight,” he says. His voice grows as smooth and sweet as honey. “Let me take care of you.”

Damar nods silently, not trusting himself to speak again. He has already said too much, admitted far more than he had intended. He lets his hands rest softly on Weyoun’s waist, and tilts his face up to accept the kiss Weyoun presses against his mouth. Weyoun flicks a tongue out to press against his lips, coaxing them open, and Damar obeys on instinct. The Vorta’s tongue invades his mouth and Damar shivers involuntarily, his own tongue chasing over Weyoun’s as the Vorta’s hands fist into his hair and he deepens the kiss. He feels Weyoun unclasp his armored chest-plate, hears it thunk onto the floor as he tosses it aside, and Damar breaks away from the kiss to help the Vorta pull his undershirt off his body. Weyoun runs a hand over Damar’s newly exposed chest, and his quick, clever fingers fleet over the knots of scar tissue that the dermal regenerators were unable to fully erase. His movements grow gentle as he traces over the faded burn marks surrounding the scars, and Weyoun sweeps a thumb over a series of ridged scales that have half fused together. The wound that has long since healed (but has never stopped aching) pulses with phantom pain at Weyoun’s touch and Damar’s nerves alight with the memory of plasma and war.

Weyoun removes his hand from Damar’s chest to shed his own garments with a speed that seems improbably fast considering how thickly layered they are. Now unencumbered, he slips off of Damar and slides down to kneel between his legs. He palms over Damar’s crotch, rubbing at the cock that has already begun to evert. With a smug smile he frees Damar’s cock from his pants, and maintaining eye contact he slowly licks a strip from the base to the tip. His violet eyes are as bright as an electromagnetic storm, and Damar shudders at the sight of them. Weyoun’s lips envelope the head of Damar’s cock, and he sucks on it, lapping his tongue over the slit. The rush of pleasure is immediate and blinding, and Damar cries out, his hips canting up of their own accord. Firmly, Weyoun presses a hand to Damar’s pelvis, forcing him back down, and for a moment that stretches on torturously long, Weyoun continues to tease at the head. But then finally, mercifully, he dips his head down, bringing Damar’s cock deeper inside, and Damar groans weakly as his length is sheathed in the wet, white-hot heat of the Vorta’s throat. He fists his hands into the fabric of the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut and biting the inside of his cheek as he forces himself to stillness and tries desperately to resist the growing impulse to buck up into Weyoun’s mouth. It is an uphill battle – a fight against every natural, biological urge in his body, but he manages to keep his hips motionless as Weyoun bobs up and down his cock. The Vorta’s hand moves up to wrap around the base of Damar’s cock, twisting slightly but purposefully as he licks and sucks along the head and shaft. It is entirely too much stimulation, and Damar’s control shatters and he squirms helplessly under Weyoun’s ministrations.

 _“Please_ ,” he moans, unsure of what, exactly, he’s begging for.

Weyoun’s cheeks hollow as he slowly pulls his mouth off of Damar’s cock, applying more suction with every torturous millimeter upwards. When the seal of his lips breaks Damar almost sobs from the loss of contact. All remnants of his dignity evaporate, and he knows he would do anything Weyoun asked him now, just to spend another _second_ in the radiant, overpowering heat of his body.

“Very well, Damar,” Weyoun says. His voice is rough from his efforts and a sharp shock of satisfaction lances from Damar’s chest all the way to his groin at the sound of it. “On the ground,” the Vorta commands, crawling back and gesturing for Damar to join him.

Damar’s obedience is not a conscious decision. He yanks his pants down further, shaking them off as he lurches forward, half-stepping, half-falling, to come to his place besides Weyoun on the floor. “So compliant,” the Vorta compliments, his eyes glittering hungrily. The color of them is spellbinding, as dazzling and vibrant as gemstones, more beautiful than even the quartz fire-roses on Riatha Six Dukat once showed him. Damar’s throat clenches, utterly captivated, and he feels his neck ridges darken with a hot flush of blood. “Lay down, Damar.”

He does, and Weyoun climbs on top of him, wetting his fingers in his mouth and slicking them with saliva. He trails his free hand down Damar’s chest and his touch is as hot as a brand, leaving behind the imprint of heat on everything in its path. He presses his palm against Damar’s stomach and smirks as Damar trembles, tensing involuntarily, seemingly enjoying the sensation of Damar’s abdominal muscles flexing under his touch. Then his hand lifts and traces further downwards, arriving between Damar’s legs. His fingers ghost over his cock and then move underneath, and he spreads Damar’s legs, pressing in the first, careful finger.

Weyoun begins to stretch him open with more patience than Damar would’ve expected, and the Vorta works in a second finger, and then eventually a third, angling them until they rub against the spot that sends an immediate jolt of pleasure rippling through him. Damar’s gasp is swallowed by the Vorta’s kiss, and then Weyoun’s tongue is pressing demandingly past his lips. Weyoun’s tongue fucks into his mouth as his fingers fuck into Damar, and his other hand tangles in Damar’s hair – yanking on it just sharply enough that the sensation lights up on the edge of Damar’s awareness, and all of this is very nearly too much – but he does not want this to _stop -_

Damar’s breath escapes him in sharp pants, and Weyoun pulls away from the kiss to nuzzle into his bared neck as his fingers continue to thrust into him. He nips gently at his exposed ridges, and when Damar responds by arching up into it Weyoun bites down harder and then mouths over the area, soothing it with his tongue and his soft lips. The combination of stimulation, the intermingling of pleasure and pain over the sensitive scales is electrifying and stars gather at the corners of Damar’s vision.

“ _Weyoun_ ,” he manages to grind out. It is a minor miracle he is able to overcome the all-consuming haze blanketing every synapse in his brain to speak at all. “If you’re going to fuck me….”

He trails off, hoping Weyoun will be magnanimous enough to follow that sentence to its logical conclusion. Instead, Weyoun raises his head from Damar’s neck, blinking at him with feigned innocence. “´ _If you’re going to fuck me’_ …?” he echoes in a taunting coo. “Care to complete that thought, Damar?” His fingers curl inside of Damar, and prompting a particularly undignified noise that Weyoun laughs silently at. His eyes shine with mirth, but the usual mocking edge has been softened, and for a delicate moment he almost looks fond. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you want, Damar?”

 _I want you to stop being cruel, you devious little bastard_ Damar tries to say. But what comes out instead is: “I want your cock.” 

He cannot look down to see, but he is sure he is blushing hard enough to turn his neck ridges a dark blue, and he prays Weyoun is not feeling sadistic enough to ask for further elaboration. Fortunately, the Vorta seems to be in one of his rare, benevolent moods – perhaps to reward Damar for his pliant submission. Weyoun smiles again with almost genuine affection, and then withdraws his fingers, and presses his cock to Damar’s entrance, slowly sliding it inside. He begins to move, his hips rolling almost languidly - not so much thrusting as grinding into him - and the slow build of friction is intoxicating. There is wrongness in this act – it is taboo for a Cardassian man to allow himself to be penetrated of his own volition, to _choose_ this as a form of pleasure… but that thought is very distant, and it proves unable to distract from the mind-numbing sensations that Weyoun is elicting.

“You feel magnificent,” Weyoun says in a voice strained with lust, and Damar is almost ashamed that the praise sends arousal shooting through his nerves. The Vorta’s composure has begun to fracture: his features are tight and his pupils are massively dilated, almost as large as they were on snakeleaf. Damar drinks in the sight of it, determined to commit it to memory. He lets his lips part invitingly, and the Vorta’s mouth collides with his, and Weyoun sloppily, greedily kisses Damar, all of his usual careful finesse dissolving in this moment. 

He feels Weyoun’s hand dip down between them to grasp his cock, gliding up the shaft, and any remaining thoughts in his mind instantly disintegrate. He knows nothing but the sensation of Weyoun fucking into him, nothing but the tantalizingly warmth of the Vorta’s cock inside of him – a sensation only matched by the swiftly growing heat between his legs. He cannot imagine any pleasure in the galaxy eclipsing this. He would not trade this moment for all of the oiled and glistening men and women of Orion, for any Risian orgy, for any Betazoid prostitute bathed in pheromones and alien aphrodisiacs. 

“Come for me, Corat,” Weyoun murmurs into his ear, and that is all it takes – Damar is undone. He shudders at the sound of his name on Weyoun’s tongue, and then the rising heat that has gathered between his legs reaches its apex and his cock pulses as he spills himself into Weyoun’s hand. 

They move to Weyoun’s bed after, and Damar pulls Weyoun into his arms, wrapping himself around the outpouring of warmth that is the Vorta’s body. Weyoun is more docile than usual, and seems content to allow himself to be used as a heating unit; he even lets out a soft, keening noise when Damar noses sleepily into his neck. It is altogether highly irregular, and it makes Damar suspicious. “You’re being almost nice,” he accuses.

“You Cardassians are always so mistrustful,” Weyoun responds, drowsiness slurring his words and siphoning away the sharpness of the retort. He yawns and wriggles in Damar’s arms, rearranging himself so that his head is tucked under Damar’s chin, his hair tickling into the underside of Damar’s jaw. “Is it really so hard to believe that I care about your wellbeing?”

“Yes,” Damar says, choosing transparency over tact. It does feel like a rather stupid admittance though, with Weyoun curled up against him and Damar’s fingers lightly caressing over the Vorta’s pale skin - although he tells himself _that_ is merely an automatic reflex, the same kind he would experience with any lover. He is tired enough that the lie is almost convincing.

Weyoun is silent for a long moment, and then reaches up to the hand still idly stroking his side. He folds his own hand over Damar’s, halting the motion, and squeezes in a way that Damar cannot determine is meant be reproachful or comforting. He rotates around and tilts his head up to meet Damar’s gaze - his eyes as bright and mesmerizing as liquid jewels. “I do care, Corat,” he says. “More than you give me credit for, at least.” He smiles lazily. “Although I can hardly blame you for your apprehension.”

A dangerous softness burrows its way into Damar, ushered in by the Vorta again forming his name in that silken voice of his. _Words_ have always been Weyoun’s favored weapons, and Damar should’ve known that it was only a matter of time before his own _name_ was added to the Vorta’s arsenal. His half-hearted attempt at a warning growl ends up coming out as a low rumble of contentment. “I wish things had been different,” he tells him.

“With Weyoun 6?”

“With all of you,” Damar says. “With all of _it_. What did us being enemies accomplish, in the end?”

“War is an ugly master,” Weyoun muses, his fingers playing over the ridges crisscrossing Damar’s chest.

“The _Founders_ are uglier masters,” Damar says coldly. He does not hold Weyoun blameless for his role in the destruction of Cardassia, but he is cognizant of the fact that ultimately the Vorta are a subjugated race, slaved to the bidding of their uncaring gods. His antipathy towards Weyoun has cooled over the years, but his hatred for the Vorta’s changeling overlords has not diminished and that rage is fed every time he thinks to what his people have lost. He will never forgive the Dominion, even when all their burnt-out husks of building are made gleaming and whole again, even when the last of his people has been freed from poverty. The byproduct – the burden - of their superior memories is that Cardassian healing is slow and incremental. In his office alone, a month ago Ajic was brought to tears by the sight of an Antarian moon blossom, and she had wept into Miska’s arms, inconsolable. He had learned later that it had been her wife’s favorite flower.

“I don’t want to have this argument, Damar,” Weyoun says stiffly. “We both know how you feel about the Founders.” He sighs. “I have also… indulged the occasionally fantasy of things being different. I sometimes wish that my predecessors had made different decisions with you, with Cardassia as a whole. But it is easy to retroactively select the perfect choices, the correct courses of action. And I can’t change the past.”

“Would it have made a difference if either of us had… reached out to each other?” Damar asks, and a second question drifts unspoken between them: _would you have joined me when I defected_?

The Vorta suddenly looks very tired. “No,” he says. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

It is a release of responsibility, but it is a bittersweet relief at best. He pets through Weyoun’s hair and the Vorta snuggles into his chest, pressing the ridged curve of his ear to the raised mound of scar tissue. “Your new heart beats strongly,” Weyoun murmurs. “The sound is… soothing.”

Damar leans down to kiss the Vorta’s forehead. “I care about you, too,” he reluctantly admits. “I don’t want us to become enemies again.”

“Neither do I,” Weyoun says softly. There is a short pause, and Damar feels the Vorta grin into his chest. “And besides,” Weyoun purrs, “We have new enemies to worry about, you and I.”

“The Romulans and Kell,” Damar grumbles. “And who knows whoever else.”

“Yes,” Weyoun agrees. “But don’t worry, Damar – I won’t let you face them alone.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! so the plot for this has begun to get a bit long, and at the risk of this becoming a hulking multi-chaptered monstrosity, I've decided to split this into a series. the end of this chapter is definitely the end of "part 1", so to speak, and it felt like a natural place to end this fic before part 2. I really hope you guys continue on this journey with me! I've had a great time with this, and I have some stuff planned that I'm VERY excited for! the first chapter of the next work should be ready this week or next, and I don't anticipate much of a delay :)
> 
> any Vorta language is credited to Howelleheir's brilliant Dominionese conlang - I take no credit for it 
> 
> (Weyoun in a hood was also shamelessly stolen, thank you Dayoun server!)

Damar hesitates in front of Ezri’s door, debating whether it would be more or less obnoxious to press the ringer or to simply let himself in. She had told him she would be leaving it unlocked, but a nagging sense of propriety insists that sauntering into her quarters without first announcing his presence would be borderline Klingon in terms of abject rudeness. Then again, he remembers, the Dax symbiont has displayed an affinity for the Klingon species that spans several lifetimes – and perhaps after so long in their less-than-illustrious company, Ezri has come to share their compulsive disregard for the rules of etiquette. His hand hovers awkwardly over the control panel as he tries to muster up the courage to simply press down and ignore the siren’s call of the ringer button to his left. He’s not quite sure what he’s so afraid of – Weyoun is with her, so the likelihood of Damar accidentally walking in and catching Ezri in a state of undress is low. He grimaces and commits to his decision; with one last, forlorn look at the ringer Damar steels his nerves and stabs his pointer finger into the panel.

The door slides into the wall with a soft inhalation and Damar enters, and mercifully is not assaulted by the sight of any discarded clothes or unexpected nudity. Instead, Ezri and Weyoun sit across from each other at her table, both of them silently fixated on some task Ezri is attempting to perform. Her back is facing him and her hunched shoulders block his view, and Damar takes a cautious step forward, craning his neck in an effort to get a better look.

Weyoun holds his hands flat and steady on the table before them, palms down, as Ezri – her face scrunched in tense concentration – slowly paints at his nails with a tiny brush. A small, opened bottle sits between them and a pungent chemical aroma wafts out from within.

“Dax-” Weyoun starts.

“Shh,” she hisses. “I’m almost done. Don’t distract me.” She gnaws at her bottom lip, her eyes narrowing into slits as she applies a second coat of paint to the nail.

Damar slinks up beside her, curious to see how long it’ll take before she notices him. As it is, she seems completely absorbed in her work – to the point of being almost insensate to her surroundings – as long as he’s careful to be quiet about it, he could probably launch into a choreographed ballet routine complete with aerial pirouettes without registering as more than a blip on the outskirts of her vision. Weyoun meets his gaze and smiles, lifting a finger from his free hand and pressing it to his lips in the universal hushing gesture.

Damar leans down over her shoulder. “Ezri.”

She lets out a startled noise and jerks back, and he narrowly avoids being clocked in the nose by the back of her head. “ _Shit_ , Damar,” she says reproachfully. She huffs out a sigh and swipes the brush over Weyoun’s nail one last time before returning it to the bottle and twisting it closed. “Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”

“You said you were leaving the door open,” Damar says sullenly, taking a seat besides Weyoun. His face is still tingling from the near-miss with the back of her skull, and the notion that his gamble at the doorway was incorrect is (admittedly) a minor indignity, but one that smarts similar way to alcohol rubbed into an open wound. 

Ezri must see some sign of distress written onto his face, for she lets out a giggle that grows into a full-bellied laugh. After entirely too long, it tapers off into a light chuckle, and she agrees, “I did.” She smiles. “Sorry about that.”

Beside him, Weyoun blows on his nails and then waves them around for Damar’s inspection. “What do you think?”

Damar is surprised that he actually likes the color – it’s a soft lilac, a much more understated hue than he thinks Weyoun would’ve chosen on his own, and he senses Ezri’s involvement in it. His suspicions are confirmed when he glances at her nails and finds they’ve been painted with a glittering shade of bright pink that is physically uncomfortable to look at for any prolonged stretch of time.

“You decided each other’s colors?” he says, rubbing at his eyes in a futile attempt to scrub away the floating afterimage her nails leave behind.

“Good guess,” Ezri says dryly. “What gave it away?” Her lips widen into a broad smile, softening the sardonic tone, and there is an amused glint in her eyes.

It was noble of her to martyr her own nails for the sake of Weyoun’s, Damar decides. He pats her on the shoulder and tries to signal his sympathy with his eyes – an attempt that proves to be in vain, as she ends up just shooting him a quizzical look.

“ _Damar_ ,” Weyoun says impatiently, using his chin to gesture to his hands.

“I like it,” Damar tells him. He’d intended it to be a perfectly neutral statement – it’s a question that presents a binary choice: yes or no. It’s purely an inquiry of a subjective interpretation after all – nothing that Damar would think would come loaded with any secret meaning or romantic underpinnings, although he supposes if he were cleverer he could theoretically have turned his answer into a flirtatious insult. But Weyoun’s expression lights up, a soft delight blooming on his face in a moment of sincerity as rare and delicate as a flower in the snow – and in response Damar feels a warm blush spill down the ridges of his neck.

Weyoun notices his reaction almost immediately, not that Damar should’ve expected any different. _Perceptiveness_ is a trait that has been hardwired into the Vorta genome, and Weyoun has always proven himself to be especially astute even by the standards of his people. The pleasure on his features congeals into a mocking amusement, and his smile shifts smoothly into a smirk – losing its softness in the process. “Did I make you flustered, Damar?” he simpers.

To Damar’s horror, Ezri reclines back in her chair and peers at him with exaggerated intent, struggling to conceal a smirk of her own as she works with Weyoun to compound Damar’s humiliation. “I think he _is_ flustered!” she exclaims. “Weyoun – be gentle. Damar can clearly only take so much!” Her ill-advised friendship Vorta has begun to contaminate her, Damar sulkily decides – poor Dax, centuries of life as a symbiont, all to be corrupted by some smarmy little purple bastard from the Gamma Quadrant. What a tremendous waste of a noble lineage. 

Damar scowls, and resolves not to dignify any of that with a direct response. He’s already mapped it out in his head - an attempt at protest would only result in immediate mockery, and he’s certainly not about to humor them by playing into the joke. He strategically steers them into a change of subject with all the subtlety of a sehlat lumbering through a glassworks exhibition. “Weyoun – we should go. Ezri, did you want to join us?”

Ezri’s expression grows crestfallen. “I wish I could,” she says, sighing. “It does sound really fun. Next time, I promise.”

Weyoun’s voice drops into a dramatic stage-whisper. “Dax has _other_ plans.”

Ezri perks up immediately at that remark, and her blue eyes become almost as luminous as a Vorta’s. “I’m seeing Kira,” she explains excitedly, the words escaping her in a rush. “ _Well_ , not face-to-face, of course – but we have a virtual date. I’m so nervous – it’s been so long since I’ve had any alone time with her-” She flushes, as if suddenly conscious that she’s begun to ramble, and bites her lip, staring down at her hands as if abruptly entranced by the freshly-painted nails.

“Don’t be nervous,” Damar says awkwardly. He’s never been accused of being especially reassuring, and his attempt to provide some comfort to Ezri is already off to a rough start. He shoots Weyoun a dirty look – _he’s_ the one literally genetically engineered for finesse, while Damar is the same man who once inadvertently made his son cry when he tried to console him about the loss of his pet wompat. In hindsight, detailing the stages of decomposition to a grieving child had probably not been the best course of action.

Fortunately, for once in his life Weyoun decides to step up to the occasion. “Dax, you have nothing to be nervous about,” he says, easily sliding into the smoothly affable tones of a career diplomat. She raises her gaze to meet his, and there is a pause as he assesses her, something imperceptible shifting on his features. His next words have been leeched of some of their flawless professionalism, and they are nearly gentle. “I assume your wife is feeling the same way that you are.” He tilts his head and blinks away the abnormal fondness, beaming widely – an expression that reeks of artificiality, as if he’s trying to overcompensate for the moment of tenderness. “Perhaps Damar could assist you with your little… dilemma?”

Damar isn’t quite sure he likes the sound of that, but Ezri turns imploringly to him, her eyes shimmering, and he can’t quite force himself to refuse. He wonders, suspiciously, if Weyoun has been coaching her on the finer points of emotional manipulation. “Fine,” he agrees.

He’s wary about it, but he lets her drag him into her bedroom, and he’s relieved when she releases his hand to gesture emphatically at two very different outfits laid out on her bed. The first is a blocky gray jumpsuit of dubious quality, and the second is its polar opposite – a collection of black lace wrapped around a red silk dress with a dramatically plunging neckline. “Which one do you think looks better?”

Weyoun emerges behind him, and peers over Damar’s shoulder. “I wasn’t very helpful, unfortunately.” He affects a rueful look. “I do sometimes envy the aesthetic sensibilities other species seem to enjoy but, alas….” He trails off, heaving a theatrical sigh, and Damar turns around bodily to face him, wanting make sure Weyoun has an unobstructed view of him rolling his eyes.

Ezri scratches her head and stares down at both of the outfits, her face twisted in abject distress. She points at the first one. “I feel like that’s much more casual – I don’t want to seem like I’m _trying_ too hard, right? We’re married after all!”

“Go with the second,” Damar tells her. “The first one is….” He breaks off, trying to rephrase his thoughts using some degree of tact. If it were Weyoun asking him, he’d readily admit that the first outfit looks like it could be used by doctors as a reliable method to induce vomiting in poisoned patients, but he has a feeling Ezri wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. “…bland,” he says instead.

Ezri makes a face, and gives the first outfit a mournful look. “I suppose so.” She straightens, and her expression grows serious as she looks between Weyoun and Damar. Her lips press together, and her jaw clenches as if she’s steeling herself before an unpleasant undertaking. “I forgot to mention it earlier, Damar – but Kilana has requested we move up the timetable for our conversation. She wants to talk with us later tonight. Will that work?” 

This news puts an immediate damper on Damar’s mood, and he grimaces. It also does the double-duty of neatly sabotaging his current plans for the evening: overthinking the situation with Kell and inventing more and more ludicrous worst case scenarios, leading into a paranoid meltdown that would eventually culminate in him drinking himself into an unconscious stupor. He’d hoped Weyoun could be involved in these plans in some capacity – if only to have someone to hold his hair back as he retches up kanar. “That’s workable,” Damar says, careful to keep his expression clean of any signs of irritation. He has no desire to compound their collective bad mood before Ezri’s date with her long-absent wife. “I’ll have my adjunct set it up in my office.” 

With a bleak nod, Ezri moves to escort them out.

As they leave, Weyoun makes a beeline towards his chair, and sweeps off the jacket hanging from the back of it. It’s a dull, rose-colored thing – and recently replicated, judging by the stiff, unnaturally wrinkle-free fabric and the thin, too-closely woven filament threads of the material. He puts it on, lifting up the voluminous hood over his head. It shadows his features and does an adequate job of concealing the telltale curve of ridged ears. Damar doubts anyone could identify his species – aside from the purple eyes glowing out from underneath Weyoun could safely pass as a member of any number of alien races. The precaution had been his idea – and he’s grateful that Weyoun, despite scoffing at the suggestion when it was made the night before, has decided to indulge him on this. 

The desire to take Weyoun’s hand in his as they walk out together stirs inside of him. The idea is almost petrifyingly appealing, and it proves difficult to quash. It would not be appropriate to be caught treating Weyoun as a lover – as far as Central Command is concerned, an _alien_ is an acceptable plaything (provided an appropriate amount of discretion is used) but never a true romantic partner. Cardassia has no codified laws regarding interspecies relationships, but what would be merely scandalous for a civilian could be career-ending for a Legate of his rank. And Weyoun is not simply _some alien_ – perhaps Damar could get away with taking a human lover, or a Vulcan consort. Gul Niam’s Klingon mistress (and their shared home on Cardassia Prime) had been an open secret among the Fourth Order. But to be seen with a Vorta – and _this_ specific Vorta – the face and voice of the Founder’s murderous will – would be tantamount to political suicide. He balls his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm to distract himself from the persistent impulse to reach for Weyoun, and lets himself imagine a world where he is only a man, not a Legate, and Weyoun is merely another Vorta and not the one who was once the right-hand of the Founder. It is a scientific fact that there are other realities beyond this one – a myriad of parallel dimensions, infinite probabilities fracturing, kaleidoscopic, along space-time; alternative universes comprising all unrealized possibilities. Perhaps there is a world where another Damar and another Weyoun are walking through Cardassia Prime, hands joined together, without a thought to anything or anyone else.

* * *

As he’d expected, Weyoun is immediately enchanted by the chaos and vibrancy of the market and flits around the vast maze of it, moving from sight to sight fast enough that Damar is forced to jog to keep up. Weyoun pushes past a crowd blocking an obsidian obelisk that emanates a faint, unearthly glow, and gazes at it with a hungry wonder, before losing interest and darting to a booth manned by a Klingon hawking a collection of badly scuffed Bat’leths. He follows Weyoun as best he can, passing a gaggle of laughing Orions dusted with yellow and red powder and almost colliding with one of them as she stumbles, intoxicated, into his path. He loses Weyoun somewhere in a throng of spectators gathered around a heavily tattooed human playing some massive stringed instrument, and elbows through the crush of onlookers, spotting the Vorta already far in the distance. 

He finds him at last besides an alabaster fountain filled with a thickly roiling gel, sitting on the edge of the stone rim, his fingers dipped into the substance. He swirls them and then withdraws, and it clings to his skin, shimmering with an opalescent sliminess. To his left, a young Cardassian couple giggles and plunges their hands into the fountain, squealing at the sensation. Weyoun grins at his arrival and pats at the space next to him, indicating for Damar to sit. At the Vorta’s insistence, he tentatively prods at the gel, wincing as he does. It’s ice-cold and it makes a sickening slurping noise as his finger breaks through the surface, and it adheres to his skin with a suctioning force. He withdraws and attempts to wipe off the offending substance onto his pants.

“This is a Rinn’Dosi mountain bath,” Weyoun tells him. “They’re a species native to the Gamma Quadrant. This is utilized in their religious rituals – the priests cover warriors in it after a battle, to purify them before they’re allowed to enter a temple. The fluid is clear and viscous enough that they consider it to be comparable to the birthing gel of a womb; for a soldier who has been forced to take a life on the battlefield, being anointed in this is akin to a spiritual rebirth, of sorts.” He looks down into the pooled goop again, dunking in his pinky finger with an irreverence that seems ill-suited to its supposed holy nature. “They usually consider it quite sacred. I’m not sure how a sample managed to find its way here.”

“How do you know the Rinn’Dosi?” Damar asks. “Business or pleasure?”

The turn of phrase seems to amuse Weyoun, and he shrugs lightly. “I was a member of the Vorta delegation brought in to help negotiate their surrender and entry into the Dominion. Their soldiers were quite formidable – many of our forces fell to their armies. We ended up splicing some of their DNA into our next generation of Jem’Hadar.” He looks bored, and his eyes track over the market, searching for his next diversion.

Despite the anxiety-inducing enormity of the crowds and the stress of having to continually tail Weyoun, Damar admits it is exciting seeing the market through the Vorta’s eyes. Damar has always found himself gravitating towards rigid efficiency in all aspects of his life, but that productivity has often come at the expense of him failing to fully appreciate, or even notice, his surroundings. On the previous occasions he’s been here he’s always had some sort of _mission_ in mind – a specific thing to buy, or a particular attraction to visit. Weyoun, by contrast, seems impressed by the novelty of the market itself – the holistic sum of all of its incongruent parts - and despite his lackluster sense of aesthetics the Vorta proves to have a keen eye for spotting the most mesmerizing objects and displays.

Weyoun takes them through tents thick with smoke and incense, moving past alien fortune-tellers and debatably pornographic tapestries either depicting complex acrobatics or masturbatory techniques. They travel by rows of candles carved into delicate flowers, scarlet flames dancing along the wicks as wax drips down drooping petals, and then around a group Cardassian teens playing some sort of holographic game – golden circles spin around a shifting, blinking mass that bathes them in light and warbles out a musical tone. 

They stop at a stall selling odd little edible assortments the vendor claims are desserts from a variety of planetoids – and Weyoun purchases a set of clear, hollow candies with what looks like colorful worms squirming in the center.

“For Dax!” he says brightly. He begins to snicker to himself, and in between fits of giggling he wheezes, “ _She_ has a worm in her center too.”

They don’t look especially appetizing, and Damar’s lip curls with disgust, which only makes Weyoun laugh harder. “It’s unsavory,” he tries to argue. “It’s like – a suggestion of self-cannibalism.”

“ _Self-cannibalism_ ,” Weyoun repeats, mocking, as the vendor wraps up the candies and hands them to him. “Your vivid imagination has always been wasted on that cynical personality of yours, Damar.” On a whim, he buys something for himself as well – a neon-blue, poufy creation of spun sugar balanced precariously over a slim cone. He eats it one careful nibble at a time as they wander through the streets, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he chews.

“What’s that even like for you, if you can’t taste it?” Damar asks. Personally, _taste_ is the only motivating factor in Damar’s meal choices – if he found himself deprived of that sense he’d willingly consign himself to a life of MREs and replicated protein bars – he would certainly not bother to experiment with food in the way Weyoun does.

Weyoun takes another bite before responding. “I like the sensation of it melting in my mouth.” He makes a face, and runs a tongue over his teeth. “Although it is… sticky.” He offers it to Damar. “Try some. I’d be curious to know how it tastes to you.”

It is only marginally more appealing than the candies for Ezri – it has a sickly stench to it, and the blue threads look spidery up close – twirled together like webbing. With a grumble, Damar leans forward and bites off the smallest section he can get away with. The discolored sugar dissolves almost immediately in his mouth, shriveling into a ball of distilled sweetness, and he swallows quickly. “It’s… flavorful,” he says. “But too sweet. Maybe a Bajoran or a human would enjoy it.” He startles himself by laughing. “Perhaps you’re better off not tasting it at all!”

Weyoun finishes it, and then crumples the paper cone in his hands, leaving Damar to search for a basin to dump it in. Damar waits, awkwardly people-watching, drifting over the passerby’s until he notices an unusual sight, and lets his gaze linger. Sequestered between two tents – not entirely exposed by certainly not hidden – is a Cardassian woman, her plaited hair braided with green ribbons, kissing an alien that looks to be of Ezri’s species. He hadn’t intended to stare, and he only realizes that he’s done so when she catches him watching and flinches back. He expects her to guiltily pull away from her partner, but instead her features harden and she drapes an arm around his shoulders, glaring at Damar as if in challenge. Embarrassed, he averts his gaze, and waits for Weyoun to return.

They stop by one last vendor before they leave – she’s a strange alien with lidless, insectoid eyes and a plume of feathers where hair should be, selling an eclectic assortment of goods. The ones that capture Weyoun’s interest are the skittering, bug-like things on the counter – toys that, according to the vendor, can be imprinted with a DNA sample of their owner, to whom they will be immediately attached. They are, she had explained further, usually gifts for a romantic partner – adoration expressed through a physical conduit. At this, she had looked pointedly between Weyoun and Damar, although she had said nothing further, aware – perhaps – that such an overt suggestion of xenophilia could be considered a grave insult to the wrong Cardassian. 

_“It’s not alive, is it?”_ Damar had asked, squinting down at the glossy black exoskeleton of the creature, unsuccessful at determining whether it is biological or robotic – or perhaps some combination thereof. He does not relish the idea of programming devotion into a living organism, regardless of how primitive it might be – it reminds him too much of the Founders, and the fanatical worship they weave into the biochemical makeup of their servants.

The vendor had assured him that it was artificial – merely a convincing simulacrum of life, and she had laughed at the absurdity of his question, her feathers fluffing up – _“Imagine having to feed it! Robots are much simpler.”_

“Thank you for taking me here, Damar,” Weyoun is saying, in a voice that sounds nearly sincere. He cups his hands together and scoops up one of the toys, and it goes inert as soon as contact has been made, all six legs immediately retracting into its shell. “I’ve always loved places like this. Seeing this blending of alien species – different civilizations all congregating peacefully, intermingling and sharing the best of their cultures.”

“That seems antithetical to the Dominion I’ve seen,” Damar retorts. “I can’t say your empire did a particularly good job demonstrating peaceful cooperation in the Alpha Quadrant.”

Weyoun shoots him a sharp look. “That’s rather hypocritical, coming from a member of such a notoriously xenophobic race, wouldn’t you agree?” He shakes his hands lightly, and the automaton comes back to life, bouncing around in Weyoun’s open palms and emitting a high-pitched, electronic chittering. “The Dominion has always welcomed new worlds into our fold. We embrace diversity.”

Damar barks out a laugh. “And all you demand in return is absolute and unwavering compliance."

“It is the order of things,” Weyoun says simply. A faraway look enters his eyes, and he grins. “There was a world I was quite fond of in my second iteration. It was an ocean moon, and the species inhabiting it communicated through a complex pattern of bioluminescent pulses from their antenna. Obviously, the standard translator devices were useless. I spent a year there slowly piecing together how their language worked, and how to make myself understood to them.”

“And what happened?” Damar asks. “Did they join the Dominion?”

Weyoun’s smile wavers. “No. And in retaliation, the Jem’Hadar poisoned their oceans. That world has been lifeless for… a very long time.” He goes silent, perhaps lost in the memory, and then blinks, shaking his head as if trying to snap himself back to the present. “A shame. Weyoun 2 had petitioned the Founders to spare their world – give them a chance to make amends.”

“The Founders are monsters,” Damar bites out. “World devourers.”

“The Founders are wise in all things,” Weyoun snaps, although the mantra sounds less fervent than usual, as if he’s just regurgitating it from rote. He stares at the toy for a moment longer, and then angles his hands downwards and lets it slip back onto the table.

Damar chases after Weyoun as the Vorta begins to speed-walk out of the tent. “Speaking of – Weyoun, slow down-”

“ _You_ need to hurry up,” Weyoun counters, but he obliges and lets Damar fall into step beside him.

Damar lowers his voice. “That thing we discussed a week ago. Is it in motion?”

Weyoun hums the affirmative. “The preparations have been completed. Our surgeons are exceptionally skilled.”

It is a disquieting thought, imagining Vorta surgically altered to pass themselves off as another species. It had unnerved him when Dukat had posed as a Bajoran, and Vorta doing it as well makes him even more uneasy. The Obsidian Order had utilized such methods often – positioning disguised asserts in strategic positions on a variety of worlds, and it is a tactic the Founders themselves used to great effect on Earth. He tries to distract himself before his thoughts descend into a spiral of paranoia, and he tries not to fixate on the potential implications of Weyoun’s insinuation regarding the _expertise_ of Vorta surgeons. He pushes past his misgivings: the idea had been his, originally, after all – to take a note from the Order’s old playbook and attempt to beat the Romulans at their own game. Of course, _outsmarting_ Romulans was a dangerous proposition – but that was where the Vorta’s particular talents would come in handy.

“And you trust them?” Damar asks.

Weyoun scoffs. “I know you are used to the backstabbing and self-sabotaging political maneuvering of Cardassians, Damar, but it is not like that among my people.” He catches Damar’s expression and rolls his eyes. “But _yes,_ I trust them.” His teeth flash under his hood as he smiles. “I am _so_ curious to see what they eventually uncover.”

* * *

His adjunct greets them at the office wearing rumpled civilian clothes and a dark scowl. “It was _supposed to be_ my day off,” she informs him, tapping impatiently against the shiny surface of a new PADD – part of the recent shipment from Kell’s office. He’d made good on his bribe, at any rate – their budget had almost doubled overnight, and even their replicator had been replaced with a newer, Federation-issue model pre-programmed with over two hundred selections of food and drink.

He ignores the remark. “Is it set up?”

She jerks her head in the direction of his office. “Do you think I’m incompetent? It’s all there: encrypted link and everything.”

At his nod, Weyoun and Ezri head inside, but Miska calls out to him before he can follow them in. Her voice goes hushed, and her eyes dart around as if making sure they’re alone. “Corat,” she begins, and the sound of his first name – so rarely used by anyone, let alone her – has alarm bells ringing in his ears. “You never told me what happened with Kell.” She licks her lips, and her eyes drift down, as if unsure of how to proceed. The display of vulnerability is out of character, and for a fraction of a second – in the cold, empty space between heartbeats – she reminds him of Ziyal, and he finds himself suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “All of these fancy new _toys_ he’s given us – I don’t trust it. What does he want in exchange?”

He has told her some of what he discovered with Ezri and Weyoun, but not all of it, and not the plan they have been concocting regarding the Romulans. Perhaps it is time to bring her into the fold. “Later,” he promises. “I’ll explain everything.” When he looks up, the ghost of Ziyal is still dancing over her face, and he tries not to flinch away.

She glowers, the severe set of her features hardening with dissatisfaction, and she looks like _herself_ again. “I’ll hold you to that, _Legate_.”

Kilana’s projection moves more sinuously than a transmitted hologram has any right to, gracefully spinning to greet him as he enters the room. “ _Legate_ ,” she purrs. “You know, Weyoun has told me so much about you. I’m delighted at how smoothly this partnership between the two of you has been working out. This is truly a new dawn for both of our peoples.” She turns to Ezri, and fixes her with a dazzling smile. “And _you_ have been a _lovely_ addition as well, Lieutenant. The Dominion will not soon forget your contributions either.” Her voice drops into an affected, conspiratorial whisper. “Although I should’ve expected as much – Colonel Kira holds you in _very_ high esteem.”

It’s all empty platitudes and feigned niceties to Damar – but Ezri seems flustered by the compliment, and blushes, mumbling out a quick thanks in return.

Kilana seems keen to drag out the small talk, but it’s an inconvenient time to have a meeting, and Damar is impatient to wrap it up quickly and salvage what he can of the night. “Was there a reason you wanted to speak with us, Kilana?”

She claps her hands. “Right to business, then! I do respect that.” She rearranges her features into a contrite expression, and Damar braces himself for her next words. “I’m _afraid_ that my planned visit to Cardassia Prime will be occurring quite a bit sooner than we had originally predicted.”

Damar’s brow throbs, and he doesn’t bother to disguise his annoyance. “When?”

She dips her head in apology and spreads her arms wide in a display of nauseating supplication usually reserved for a Founder. As usual, she’s overdoing it, coating herself in sugary charm as if that will make him forget about the venomous fangs underneath that amiable façade. “We leave the day after tomorrow,” she murmurs. She blinks up at him innocently. “So you see the reason we had to push up this meeting. I know this is… inopportune and I truly am sorry. But rest assured, the first prototypes of your orbital devices have been completed to specifications – and they will be arriving when we do. We do hope you like them – personally, I am _very_ excited to see your reaction. Your schematics were extremely detailed, but you left the overall surface appearance of the device so… nebulous. I hope you don’t think it presumptuous, but I had a hand in that design. The end result is quite lovely, if I do say so myself.”

How clever of her – to so skillfully smooth over his irritation by dangling the promise of a gift overhead. Flattery and bribes – it is the Vorta’s way, and, Damar reflects, _Kell’s_ way. He does not like the comparison in either direction. There is no way to channel this frustration into anything productive, and he is certainly not about to provide Kilana with any honest insight into his feelings on the subject. Instead, he gives himself permission to be cruel. “ _Lovely?”_ he repeats. “Wasn’t that sort of aesthetic appreciation siphoned out of your people’s genetic recipe eons ago?”

In his peripheries he sees Weyoun go still, and he can practically sense the Vorta begin to vibrate with compressed rage. This is not an appropriate topic of discussion for their species – it is about as rude as asking a Cardassian man if he enjoys being fucked like a woman.

Kilana smiles at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re trying to imply, Legate.”

It is that smile – professionally perfect and utterly detached – a hollow, deadened mimicry of emotion – that spurs him to ignore his better judgment and continue. “Are you defective?” 

She cocks her head, still smiling, and her answer is not the one he had expected. “You are more astute than our psychographic profiles give you credit for, Legate.”

“Kilana-” Weyoun starts, his voice sharp with warning.

“I am the third Kilana,” she says, ignoring her fellow Vorta. “The last of my line. My defection is too deeply embedded in my genetic structure for the Founders to disentangle it, although they have tried – twice now. The Founders consider me useful enough not to terminate, but there will not be another Kilana activated once I am gone. I hope this satisfies your curiosity?”

Quite the contrary – it only raises more questions, each one more disturbing to consider than the last. “And you still serve them?” he blurts out.

Beside him, Weyoun fixes him with a horrified look, and hisses under his breath, “ _Damar_. You are being _enormously_ vulgar, even by _your_ ill-mannered standards.”

“Very vulgar,” Kilana agrees, her genetically enhanced hearing sharp even over holo. She does not look especially offended, and she smiles faintly at Weyoun. “He is a rather brutish specimen, isn’t he? How rivetingly archetypal of his race.” For a second Weyoun looks as if he means to argue with her assessment, and then seemingly thinks better of it, flattening his lips together. Kilana turns back to regard Damar, and the corners of her mouth dip downwards in a look of muted sorrow. “I serve my people, Legate, just as you do. When I die, I will have lived three full lifetimes in defense of the Dominion. Whatever you may think of the Founders, or of the… severity of their judgements, they represent but a small fraction of the many species that make up the fabric of our society. The thousands of worlds in the Dominion, the trillions of souls upon them, have done me no wrong.”

There is something patently absurd about the notion that a dutiful, effective servant could be permanently decommissioned simply because they retain slightly off-model genetic traits _,_ and he looks over to Ezri, trying to make sure at least one other person in the room recognizes the glaring insanity of this situation. She meets his gaze and nods, her face twisted with dismay.

“You are, as always, a motivation to us all,” Weyoun purrs, spreading his arms out in that servile deference he’d normally use to greet his imposter gods – the same display Kilana had used on Damar. “Your obedience and courage in the face of your… condition… is inspirational.”

“The consummate sycophant,” Kilana says sweetly. “Cloyingly obsequious as always.”

Weyoun preens, as if he has just received the highest praise. And for all Damar knows, perhaps he has: he wouldn’t be surprised if being slavishly ingratiating was considered a badge of honor among the Vorta. “Oh Kilana,” he titters. “You flatter me.”

Kilana’s perfect smile falters, and her holographic image – radiant with light – gazes at Weyoun with the sort of intensity that suggests she has forgotten about Damar and Ezri’s presences entirely. Her eyes shine with a quiet softness. “Little zhimata,” she says gently. “They did not want me to tell you, but you should know – a Founder will be joining me.”


End file.
